Blindfolded Read online

  Blindfolded

  By

  Breanna Hayse

  Copyright © 2013 by Stormy Night Publications and Breanna Hayse

  Copyright © 2013 by Stormy Night Publications and Breanna Hayse

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

  www.StormyNightPublications.com

  Hayse, Breanna

  Blindfolded

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Images by The Killion Group and Bigstock/Wisky

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

  Chapter One

  The End. Save. Send to… Finally!

  Looking around the tiny cabin, Regan could see the evidence of the difficulty she had experienced while writing this last book: the room was spotless. Not even corner-clinging spider’s webs marred the cleanliness.

  Sighing, the young woman closed her eyes and allowed the loneliness to engulf her. Once again, without the company of her characters and their adventures, she found herself alone in the tiny room located in the middle of nowhere, surrounded only by silence. This was her life… apart from human contact, apart from distractions, and apart from love. A very lonely—but prolific—existence.

  Regan Cooper used the pen name Felicity Fairchilde. It wasn’t that she was ashamed, per se, of the contents of her books, but everyone used a pseudonym, right? Regan had made her way to the top of the best-seller charts only months after she submitted her first book, and her royalties alone had enabled her to make a down payment on this tiny hunting cabin nestled in the hills of Julian, California. Between the income from her books and the small inheritance from her parents, Regan was financially comfortable. Whether she was socially comfortable, though, was another issue.

  She was not beautiful in the standard sense of the word. Cute yes, but a far cry from her gorgeous, perfect, and very young heroines. No, she was pushing the age of thirty-six and was a bit on the chubby side, which she attributed to many hours of sitting, writing, and eating only what could be microwaved. She avoided being around the public as much as possible—a form of agoraphobia, perhaps. No matter—she was happiest when alone—and saddest.

  Regan gathered her coffee cup in her hand and stared at the screen, knowing it was only a matter of minutes before her publisher, Kennedy Jones, contacted her. Kennedy knew how to push her… hard. Kennedy always loved to press Regan to challenge herself and take the chance to write something different, adventurous, and unexpected. This last piece should satisfy the publisher’s demands. Careful What She Wished For was a huge leap… hopefully not over the side of a mountain!

  Regan tapped her finger on the screen. What was taking so long? This was the final manuscript; all the edits were done, and it shouldn’t take Kennedy more than a few minutes to peruse through them.

  Why am I so anxious? Regan wondered. Perhaps because Kennedy never offered any feedback other than praise that her book was wonderfully naughty or had good selling potential.

  Gee, you would think that as a woman Kennedy would have something more to offer, but no, the woman is always so stoically professional, Regan silently grumbled.

  Regan chuckled sadly, realizing that the only contact she had in the real world was that woman. They corresponded casually, especially when Regan experienced writer’s block or when Kennedy felt the need to light a fire under her tail to work faster. She tried to encourage Regan to “get out and see the world”, to which Regan always replied, “All I have to do is close my eyes and I’m wherever I want to be.”

  A familiar buzzing sound alerted her to an incoming email. Finally!

  Reg, got the book. Great edits. Thanks. K

  Is that all? Regan grunted and slammed the lid of her laptop shut. Unbelievable.

  * * *

  Kennedy smiled, reading the changes. Yes, this one would definitely sell well. Impressed by Regan’s aptitude for words, the publisher pondered over the writer's ability to be able to actually live the fantasies she aptly wrote about. Kennedy mulled over the desire to explore the imagery of several scenes: they were enticing, seductive, and just damn hot.

  Gulping down a glass of water, Kennedy lifted the phone receiver and dialed the company's cover artist. “Hey, Leigh, it’s me. Got another steaming piece from Miss Felicity. You need to read it first before you design, but have a bucket of ice on hand. I swear, this is her best one yet. Makes me wanna take it home and do some playing of my own.”

  “Sounds like fun, but get yourself a playmate first,” Leigh laughed. “It's not often you get all hot and bothered by a story, Ken. What's in it?”

  “I don't even know where to begin. We need to make sure that the cover shows some dungeon play… something really hot. Add whips and chains and you have the picture. Do you think she actually lives this lifestyle? She seems so in tune with the BDSM and submission aspect. It makes me curious.”

  “Have you ever talked with her?”

  “No. You know I like to keep business and pleasure apart,” Kennedy laughed.

  “I thought your business was your pleasure.”

  “Actually, pleasure is my business. I'm telling you, Leigh… I need to meet this girl. There is something very intriguing about her and her secret life.”

  “She has me interested as well. Okay, I gotta get back to work. I have a slave driver for a boss, who won't let me have any peace.”

  “Tough shit. Have it done in two days, I wanna get it out.”

  ““Sure thing, boss. Send it my way, and I’ll start on it tonight,” Leigh chuckled.

  “Just don't go jumping Cal's bones and forget to work.”

  “Hey, jumping Cal's bones is the best inspiration I can get to do my thing. My hottest covers are after I get laid,” Leigh commented. “Maybe you need some more inspiration…”

  “Trust me… I am being inspired. I'll talk to you later, okay? Say hi to Cal for me. And don't hurt yourself working on your inspiration!”

  * * *

  Regan stretched her back as she walked among the tall trees of the quiet pine forest. Several sad-looking skeletons of scattered, lightening-burnt oaks leaned over the trails, reminding her of bent old men hobbling through the thickets. Crows cawed loudly overhead, joined by the chattering of some irate squirrels. The air was warm and dry, typical for the early summer, and the only sound of civilization was the droning of a single engine plane in the distance.

  Sitting on her favorite hill that overlooked the valley, Regan leaned her back against a tree and folded her legs beneath her. What would her fans think of her if they knew the truth of her life? Because the truth was that she was alone, had never married, had birthed no children, and had only fantasized about the scenes she depicted in her novels.

  She had only been with one man. That relationship ended a year ago when he left for the Middle East and had disappeared out of her existence. Not because he was a POW… Steve had just turned up missing in interaction. She had written several letters to him, trying to help him understand her needs as both an author and as a woman, and had never received a single response. She only knew that he was alive because she had received an anonymous phone call several months after his deployment, gently advising her to cut her losses and not wait for Steve's return. The background noise over the line had been deafening, like a group of men watching a movie and laughing, and the ruckus made it impossible for her to gain information about Steve’s whereabouts.

  That experience
left her shattered and resigned to never try again. She had always been a loner, the proverbial wallflower, and learned early in life to settle for her own companionship in lieu of rejection from her peers.

  What she would give to have just one experience… one adventure… like the ones written in her books. Kennedy had advised her to get out and look for one, but Regan had always refused. “I’m not ready,” she would say. To this, Kennedy would bluntly reply, “You never will be ready, so just do it.” Regan gritted her teeth as she recited the conversation in her mind. Kennedy just couldn’t understand.

  Regan knew she frustrated her publisher too, which was probably why the woman refused to share her phone number. “I like to keep things neutral and professional, Reg…” was the abrupt reply to the request. Regan knew the truth—she was too high maintenance and Kennedy didn’t care about her on a personal level. She was simply the company’s “cash cow”.

  Taking in a deep breath of fresh air, Regan willed herself to relax. The air was fresh and clean; it invigorated her mind and helped bring forth some new ideas. She was lost in thought when the vibration of her cell phone startled her.

  She looked to check the caller ID. Unknown number. Sighing, she answered, anticipating a wrong number. She never got personal calls…

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Felicity? Felicity Fairchilde?” a low voice asked, accompanied by a tremendous amount of static.

  “I’m sorry, this is a bad connection. Yes, this is Felicity. Who is this?” Regan frowned. It wasn’t often she received a phone call using her pen name, and it usually came from a publisher trying to recruit her to another company.

  Click; just like that, the phone call ended.

  Odd. Perhaps they weren’t able to hear her? The signal strength was poor in the area, so Regan did not particularly find the situation either unusual or alarming.

  With a shrug, she returned to her place of escape… her vivid imagination.

  * * *

  Four weeks later, the release of Careful What She Wished For was announced. In only one week, it rose to the top ten of the best-seller charts; she knew Kennedy would be immensely pleased with that.

  Regan celebrated the immediate positive responses in the form of reviews and sales… alone… with a bottle of wine and snuggled under a cozy fleece blanket, quietly listening to the sounds of the night.

  “A little wine, a little song, and a cold winter night. All one needs to be happy,” Regan mused to herself, repeating words from her latest book and caught in a haze of intoxication as she dredged out the remains of the bottle. “So what if it's not winter! Here’s to you, Felicity! Salut!” Head spinning and pushing back lonely tears, Regan decided the best way to handle her sadness was to make it an early night. She planned to sleep away her pain until the morning, when she would, once again, be allowed to keep company in the lives of her characters.

  She climbed into her tiny single bed, still dressed in her favorite old sweats and toe-socks that she had been wearing since waking up that morning.

  “You're pathetic, Regan. Your best friend is your alter ego. And people love her, not you,” she grumbled, closing her eyes.

  A single, hot tear dripped slowly down her cheek, and she found herself wishing that she could magically be transported into her books, where the heroine was beautiful, loved, and cared for. Fantasy was wonderful, but it did not fill that empty void in her heart.

  The lulling sounds of crickets and tree frogs brought her to a quick repose. The noises of the forest were so familiar that some time later a sudden silence was enough to awaken her. Something was wrong! Soundlessly, she pulled on her slippers and tiptoed out of bed and into the main room, where the only light was a faint orange glow from the remains of the tiny fire in the hearth.

  She checked the locks on the door… an odd thing for her to do in the area, but a habit she performed anyway.

  Satisfied that all was well, Regan assured herself that the reason for the sudden, strange silence might have easily been a stray bobcat or mountain lion. Laughing at her overactive imagination, she returned to her room and climbed back into bed without bothering to even kick off her slippers. She collapsed against the pillow with a pounding head from too much wine and too little sleep and closed her eyes again.

  Then without warning, a large hand clamped over her mouth, startling her awake.

  Terror captured her breath, and she could not expel even the slightest sound from her throat. Not that her screams would ever be heard by human ears. She had made certain of that, living so far away from others. Fear pounded as she fought to breathe under the confines of the hard grip over her face, and she began to tremble uncontrollably as she felt hot breath on her neck.

  “Shhh, I'm not going to hurt you, Felicity. Just do as you're told.” The voice was calm, soft, in control, and definitely very masculine.

  Desperately, Regan nodded, her mind racing with thoughts of what the unseen voice had in store for her. She tried to remember the basics of self-defense. Be calm and cooperate as you focus and study your situation. Talk and make the assailant accept that you are a person…

  Bullshit. This man—with a very large, strong, rough hand that smelled of freshly mowed grass and lemons—stole all her ability to focus. As for calming herself, she was paralyzed except for the tears that leaked from her eyes.

  “It's alright, honey. Don't cry. I promise, I will not harm you,” he reassured her, whispering gently into her ear. In spite of her fear, his warm, moist breath sent chills down her spine. It was rich, warm, soothing, a bit gravely, and commanding. “I'm going to take my hand off your mouth. Promise me that you will not scream. If you do, I will have to gag you and neither of us wants that, now do we? Do not turn around.”

  Shaking, Regan nodded again, relieved to feel him release her mouth. Oddly, she felt the absence of his pressure upon her lips and his skin’s fresh scent as intensely as she had felt its presence.

  She felt him place something soft over her eyes… a blindfold! New tears began to pour.

  He tenderly kissed the left side of her neck. “You have no need to be afraid, Felicity. I am not here to hurt you. I am here to teach you,” he whispered, running his hands down her smooth arms.

  Regan shivered at his touch; it undoubtedly aroused her as much as it frightened her. Her confusion, her fear, and her loneliness—in addition to her woeful state of drunkenness—gave way to despondent resignation. There was a part of her that simply did not care at the moment. “You are not to touch this blindfold for any reason. It is for your protection. Now stand.”

  “Are you going to rape me?” she asked, her tone flat. She was preparing herself for the worst, including the distant hope that this encounter would put an abrupt end to her miserable life.

  “No. I promised I would not harm you,” he said, leading her by the elbow, his grip firm and confident.

  “Who are you?” she whimpered, listening to him unlocking her front door and the squeak of the screen as it was pushed open.

  “At the risk of sounding corny, I proudly claim the title of being your biggest fan. What is it you wrote? Ah, yes: ‘And he came to her by night. Her savior. Her greatest fantasy.’”

  “Oh my God, that was from my newest book. Please, listen! It was a fantasy. Just for entertainment! Women fantasize about being kidnapped and taken forcefully all the time—it doesn’t mean we really desire it! Please, I am begging you, let me go. I swear, I will never say anything to anyone,” Regan cried out with a sudden surge of adrenaline as he pulled her beside him down the unlit path to the street.

  The absence of gravel crunching under her feet told her that he had parked across the road, near the bridge. Any hope of being seen was quickly abandoned. No one ever came this way, which was one of the main reasons she purchased this property.

  Her will to survive had quickly emerged, and she was determined not to go down without a decent fight.

  He did not respond to her denial, nor did he relax the powerf
ul hold on her arm as she struggled to force him to release her. He smacked her rump sharply; Regan gasped at the onslaught of pain, suddenly feeling very sober and alert. Realizing the wisdom in saving her strength for when she had a better chance to escape, she growled under her breath as he led her across the hard pavement of the road.

  She cringed at the sound of a car door opening and moaned with frustration as he silently tied her hands behind her back. She could not help but note the gentleness with which he bound her and the care he took as he pushed her head down to place her in the backseat of the car. Regan took a deep breath the air mixed with new-car smell and leather polish. She was pushed down to lie upon her right side in the surprisingly roomy space and was securely buckled into place. Regan began to sob, despite the calm stroking of his hand against the top of her left thigh.

  “Sleep now, baby. We have a long drive ahead.”

  * * *

  Blindfolded, Regan was forced to concentrate on the clues awarded to her by her other senses. In an attempt to make sense of her situation, she turned inward to her 'writer's eye' and began to analyze the data she’d collected so far.

  He called her by her pen name… but that didn't mean he did not know who she was. Questions swarmed.

  How did he find her? She lived so far away that she did not receive mail except through the post office. She went into town infrequently and had very little interaction with the locals. Most of the locals avoided her anyway; they weren't interested in the 'recluses' living in the woods.

  He had also known where to park and how to break into her home, which suggested he might know the area. Was he a real estate agent? The sheriff? The last homeowner? But she didn't think any of them knew about her writing…