Blindfolded Read online

So who did? Of course, Kennedy and Leigh, but they wouldn't give out her information to anyone. Especially Kennedy… God forbid that the woman lose her primary bread-winner! Perhaps her accountant? No reason for him to expose her; the breach of privacy would cost his license. Who else? Steve was out of the picture and her parents, although they were aware of her desire to write, had passed away before her first book was published.

  The bouncing car jarred her back to reality and she was pressed back against the seat with a sense of climbing a steep hill. It did not seem as though they had been traveling for very long, but then again, time often flew by without recollection as to where it had gone whenever she disappeared inside her head… The sounds and surface of the road had gone from smooth and quiet to bumpy, loud, and gritty. Regan tensed her muscles to prevent being flung off the broad seat. There was an abrupt turn to the left, and then the car slowed to a stop.

  “Where are we?” she asked timidly as the driver turned off the ignition.

  “Your new home for the next few days. Excited?” the man asked from the front seat.

  “No, you asshole! I'm terrified!” Regan snapped. Immediately, she disbelieved she had dared to display such behavior, given her present circumstances. “I'm sorry!” she immediately stated. “Please, don't hurt me!”

  “That really was not very nice, young lady. Not after all the loving care I gave you to make sure you were comfortable,” he tsked. Regan heard his door open and the sound of his footsteps on the loose rocks below heavy, booted feet. He wore boots—another clue.

  “Loving care? You kidnapped me and tied me up like a hog. You won't even tell me who you are! Have we met? Do I know you?” Regan forced herself not to cry, hearing the door near her head open.

  Warm hands cradled her face, and she could sense his closeness as his lips slowly brushed against hers. “I'm glad to hear some spark in your voice. I was afraid you would surrender too easily. I know you're afraid right now, sweetheart. There is no need to be. You can call me Master Jay.”

  Regan gulped, not unfamiliar with the term. She had written enough about the dominants in her books to know what that meant.

  “I… I would rather have your real name.”

  “When you earn the privilege, I will give it to you. Now, let's sit you up and take off these ties. I'm warning you, though. If you try to strike me or attempt to run, I will not only tie your hands behind your head, but shackle your ankles as well. Understood?”

  Regan nodded. She could not deny that his hands were soothing as they rubbed out the kinks and soreness from her shoulders, or that his closeness brought a strange feeling of longing within her. She remained silent, seeking more clues around her as he bound her wrists again, this time in front of her.

  The scent of the chilled air, laden with the aroma of sage, mountain laurel, and a hint of yucca, first suggested they were somewhere in the high desert. But wait… orange blossoms? That made no sense to her. There was also a twang of salt in the dry, light breeze, yet she did not hear the ocean. A hoot of an owl echoed over her head and a sudden flood of crickets in stereo-sound assaulted her hearing. Whoever this was, he was taking great pains to allow her the time to search her environment… Perhaps he was toying with her senses, as well as her mind.

  “Are you ready to go in?” he asked, “It's nippy out here.”

  Interesting word, nippy. Colloquialism? He seemed to have some sort of an accent, even a hint of drawl… There was something vaguely familiar about his voice, but she was unable to put her finger on it.

  “No, thank you. I would like to stay out here as long as possible, if you don't mind,” Regan responded, planting her heels into the ground as she leaned against the car.

  “Okay, Felicity, let's get some things straight, first…”

  “My name isn't Felicity! Felicity is my pen name! She's not real—nothing about her is real.”

  “I know your real name is Regan, sweetheart,” his voice cooed as he grasped her in his arms, “but Regan isn't ready to face the things that Felicity will be seeing. Or, actually,” he touched the blindfold with a chuckle, “not seeing.”

  “Please… let me go,” Regan began to sob again. “I don't know what I did to you to make you do this, but…”

  “My sweet, sweet girl… since I discovered that you existed, I have been searching for you. You are all I have ever wanted, and you don't even know it. And I am what you desire, if you allow yourself to feel it, Regan.”

  The sound of her name on his tongue made her catch her breath. How could this be happening?

  “I have a difficult time believing anything a crazed stalker is saying. Just kill me and get it done with. No one would even know I was missing for months,” Regan said bitterly, a wave of despair striking her.

  The worse part about her comment was the truth in it. Even Kennedy wouldn't bother to look for her except to see if she had written another best seller.

  Chapter Two

  Regan trembled as he silently and carefully led her up a steep path and through some wet grass. Acutely aware of every sound and every sensation, the woman tried to hone into something that was familiar. He held her forearm as he helped her up stone steps, five of them, and jingled his keys when the door was unlocked.

  Regan stepped inside, her slippered feet touching a hard floor. Odd… the air smelled like hyacinths. So, this man liked flowers? Oh wait…

  “They are your favorite, aren't they? Next to the bearded iris,” he asked, leading her a few steps before lifting the flowers to her nose.

  She took in a deep breath, nodding. “How did you know?”

  “In your books… you give away so much of yourself, Regan. You tell the world everything about you without even knowing it. Except for one important thing.”

  “What's that?” she asked, aware of his closeness. He caressed her cheek.

  “How beautiful you really are… and how lonely.” His voice sounded sad. “I'm so sorry it took this long for me to find you. But, I promise, you will be happy I did.”

  “You are scaring the hell out of me. Please… let me go,” she whimpered.

  He pulled her down to sit on his lap. She noticed he had long, broad thighs and that his arms easily wrapped around her shoulders. Pushing her head against his chest, she guessed his height to be six feet tall, at least. Well, that ruled out some of her suspects…

  “I can't let you go until you find yourself, darling. It's when you do that that you will want me.”

  Regan was silent, unable to think clearly as she felt herself being held snugly in this strange man's arms, being rocked tenderly as though she was… special. She tried to recall the last time any man had held her like this. Steve did, once, before he left for his assignment. She had been distraught that he was leaving, and their last night together had ended in a loud fight where words were exchanged, ones that could never be taken back. Maybe that was why he had never contacted her?

  “Penny for your thoughts, little one.”

  “You don't have enough money to pay for all of them,” Reagan commented wryly.

  He laughed, squeezing her tightly. “You’re probably right. Would you like to know why I’m keeping you blindfolded?”

  “Probably so that I can't report you to the cops once I find a way out of here,” Regan grumbled.

  “You are funny. Even in a situation which would have most women in hysteria, you manage to be sarcastic. It shows you have courage and spunk. No, darling, the reason I am doing this is to teach you how to see without your eyes. And how to trust.”

  “I have no reason to trust you. How do I know you aren't some maniac who goes around kidnapping authors, using them and then leaving their bodies to rot in some basement?”

  “Very true. You don't know this. But there was no other way around showing you what you need to see. Stay put. I will be right back.”

  “Like I can go anywhere like this?” She raised her bound arms. “Also, add to this major inconvenience the fact that I have no idea where I a
m, no vehicle, no phone…”

  “And still so sassy. Behave yourself like a good girl,” he chuckled, pinching her lifted chin. Regan scowled, wondering where her sudden outbreak of gumption was coming from. She was acting foolish by challenging him, yet something within her urged her to do so. She had never been so bold with Steve. In fact, if anything she had been passive-aggressive. That was her mode of operation: false passiveness. Manipulative, to say the least. And Steve was never interested in taking control and showing himself to be the lead; it was too much work for him, and he liked things easy. Kennedy was the only one who called her on it, laughing at Regan when the attempt was made via their correspondence.

  When the man rose, Regan felt strangely cold without his arms around her. She listened to his long stride and heavy footsteps as they echoed down a long hall. The house must be large, she imagined, and high-vaulted. She touched the couch with her fingertips and felt soft leather. Okay, so this guy, or whoever owned this place, had money and good taste. Still, he was some sort of psycho…

  “Still trying to figure things out? I'll describe the room for you,” he said, sitting next to her. “But first, let's adorn you in something a bit more comfortable.”

  She felt him slip something over her head and arranged around her face. The scarf that had blindfolded her was removed and she quickly opened her eyes, only to see black. He tied it firmly to the back of her head and then under her chin. After pausing to kiss her exposed mouth and the tip of her nose, he then pulled her back to lean against his chest.

  “That should be more comfortable. Pure silk and especially made for long term wear. It doesn't press against your lids like a regular blindfold. It's more like a partial hood. The buckles in the back of your head and under your little chin hold it securely in place. This way you can't just slip it off.”

  “Maybe later I'll share my appreciation for your consideration,” Regan snapped.

  He sighed, “Okay, let's get some rules out. First, like it or not, you are, in essence, my captive right now. It would behoove you to behave yourself and limit your backtalk.”

  “To prolong the time before you kill me? I'd rather get my jabs in now and get it over with.”

  “I'm not going to kill you. I will, however, put your across my knee for a good, solid spanking. That, I promise.”

  “You wouldn't dare!” Regan was aghast. He prevented her from pulling away.

  “I certainly would. In fact, my darling, I am looking forward to it. Aren't you?”

  “I certainly am not! I'm not one of those… those masochists!”

  “Then why do you write about it? Every one of your books is a spanking fantasy of yours, isn't it, Regan? Just as they are your sexual fantasies. Why is it so difficult to admit to it? Is that why you are alone in life? Because you are afraid to ask someone for what you desire the most?”

  “You are a total fruit cake! I write what sells and…”

  “I will let you go only when you start begging, Regan. Begging for what you desire most… for what your heart and body yearns for. And when you do, I will give it to you, and leave you wanting more.”

  “You sick bastard.”

  “Tsk, tsk… I tried to warn you,” his voice was patient but filled with disappointment. He snatched her bound wrists and, in one fell swoop, had her across those long, broad, and incredibly muscular thighs. Regan shouted her protest as he pressed his hand into the center of her back.

  “These will have to go. I doubt I will accomplish much with your sweats guarding your behind,” he announced, hooking his finger under the waist band and shimmying the pants over her hips and past her thighs.

  Regan squealed, kicking to escape, though she knew she had no hope to prevent this assault upon her person.

  “Have you ever been spanked before, Regan?” he asked, his large, warm hand resting tenderly upon her panty-clad backside.

  “No! Please don't!” Regan pleaded, shocked to discover that she felt momentary concern that she was wearing granny panties, and then relieved to recall that she had changed earlier to her cheekies. None of which hid the tell-tale dimples of her aging body or her sedentary lifestyle. He patted her bottom, enjoying the jiggling of the ample flesh below his hand… a hand large enough to cover the expanse of flesh she offered.

  “Well, then, we will consider this a first.”

  Regan held her breath, listening for the whoosh of his palm before it landed squarely in the center of her wriggling bottom. She yelped, surprised… A second swat followed, eliciting a loud “Owe!” from her lips. Her bottom stung wildly from just the two, yet, Regan felt an unfamiliar warmth creep up to the center of her thighs.

  “Now, my sweet, we are going to work on you being a good girl for Master Jay, aren't we?” he asked, his hand kneading the soft, tingling flesh below it. When Regan did not immediately answer, he sighed, adjusting his legs so that her bottom was raised higher in the air. CRACK! The sound of his hand contacting her exposed bottom left cheek reverberated through the room.

  A howl escaped Regan and, before she could stop, another CRACK resounded. She wailed as he lowered her panties, slowly and precisely, to rest under her bulging globes.

  “Beautiful,” he sighed, grazing the blotchy flesh with his fingers. “Now let's see how red we can make you.”

  CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! He hand fell in tempo over the exposed skin, leaving etchings of his fingertips that went quickly from white to crimson. Regan began to cough, trying desperately not to give into tears. He paused, allowing her a moment to breathe.

  “Are you alright?” he asked.

  “NO! You are hurting me! Please, let me go…” she choked out, the tears leaking out from her eyes and wetting her blindfold.

  “Have you learned your lesson about talking back?”

  “Yes! Owww!”

  “Answer correctly and politely, Regan. The way your submissives do in your books.”

  “Oh, my God…Ow! Oooow! Yes, Sir! Please…”

  He paused again, resting his hand on her scalding rump. “No more smart remarks?”

  “No, Sir,” Regan sniffed.

  “That's my good girl,” he praised, pulling her panties and sweats up to cover her bottom.

  Regan found herself flushing with pleasure at his words. What the bloody hell was wrong with her? She reprimanded herself. She was his prisoner!

  “Y-you promised to describe the room,” Regan whispered, eager to change the subject as he lifted her up to sit cradled in his arms again.

  He tucked her face under his chin, and she inhaled his scent. It was like his voice… warm, comfortable, and very seductive. He also had some stubble that scratched lightly against her face. She resisted the urge to nip him. Stockholm Syndrome? No, not this soon. It was the wine and her despondence that made her so vulnerable to him. She vowed never to drink alone again…

  “Let's see…The sense of the entire house is largely Mediterranean. Light, airy, with touches of blues. This is the living room. I would say it is about sixteen-hundred square feet, and the two main entrances are framed with smooth marbled columns supporting arches. There is a cathedral ceiling with an original hand-painted Di Sotto in Su fresco. The decor is very eclectic, and the center point is my favorite painting. The Kiss, by Gustav.”

  “That's my favorite, too,” Regan muttered, trying to picture the room. “I never wrote about that. How did you know…?”

  He ignored her question, holding her against his warm chest as though he had known her for years. Regan struggled against the fact that it felt… good. She fit perfectly against him. He continued to talk quietly. “She's so content, isn't she? And that tiny smile on her lips says everything is right in the world.”

  “It's because of how he is touching her. She's putty in his hands,” Regan added, her mind recalling the details in the portrait. “He's so gentle, yet she trusts him to hold her upright. Her legs are collapsing underneath her.”

  “And they are in a field of flowers. She's intoxicated by his lo
ve. Theirs is a love everyone only dreams of.”

  Regan was silent, surprised by the sensitivity and passion in his voice. “What else is in the room?” she asked quietly.

  “There are large potted palms in wide mouth pots that look like giant, white urns, and a dark wood-grained grand piano stands alone in the corner, next to a vase of forsythias, pussy willows, and daffodils.”

  “Real ones?” she asked, her childlike question was mingled with hope.

  “Yes, darling. Real ones. You make me smile,” he said. “When was the last time you saw those?”

  “When I was a little girl and lived in Long Island. There was a giant hedge… Tell me more about the room.”

  “Tell me about the hedge, Regan.”

  “It’s not important. Please, finish describing the room.”

  “After you tell me about the hedge.” His words were a command, not a request. Regan shivered, pulling into herself.

  “My grandfather used to pick me up after school, and we’d always take the long walk home so we could go by the flowers when they bloomed. There used to be so many different kinds,” Regan said softly, “irises and tulips, lilacs and daffy-ducks.”

  “Pardon?”

  Regan laughed sadly. “I always called the daffodils that. It made him laugh.”

  “You loved him very much, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, more than anyone. He died when I was ten, and my parents wouldn’t let me say goodbye. So every time I see a flower from back East, I think of him.”

  “It’s important to hold onto things like that when we have our sad days, honey. They make us smile,” he said kindly, squeezing her. He continued to describe the room. “The floor is white marble, veined in shades of blue, and is covered by a large, round Persian carpet.”

  “What color?” Regan asked, musing that this was her dream home as he described the cool hues of cream, along with golds, whites, and sharp blues. He went on to tell her about the furnishings, all large and shades of white and gold, low to the floor with touches of wood and iron, massive throws and floor pillows, a tiled fireplace housing a hand-carved hearth, and the whimsical figurines of tiny birds. Regan smiled with excitement; she adored realistic statues of tiny birds! These he brought to her to hold, and she marveled at the feel of their delicate little features.