Tira’s abduction had been a masterpiece of cinematic cliché. She woke in a cavernous warehouse, her hourglass figure squeezed into a chair by coarse ropes that bit into her skin. Wearing only the skimpy, shimmering dress and sheer pantyhose she had donned for the club, she looked like a misplaced piece of luxury in a graveyard of industry. While her masked captor stepped out, Tira strained against her bindings. With a desperate, agonizing heave, the knots slipped.
She scrambled up, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The floor was a minefield of jagged metal and shattered glass. She bolted toward the distant light of an exit, but a sharp scream tore from her throat as a shard of glass buried itself deep into her foot. She collapsed, clutching her ankle as blood bloomed through the nylon.
The heavy thud of boots echoed. The kidnapper reappeared, his black clothes blending into the shadows. He stared at the empty chair, then at the shivering woman on the floor.“Going somewhere, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice a low, distorted rumble.
“Get away from me!” Tira shrieked, trying to crawl away.
“Now, now. A little discipline is required for such a naughty escape attempt.”
He lunged, scooping her up over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Tira hammered her fists against his back, her legs kicking wildly in the air. In response, he brought his large hand down in a thunderous spank across her bare, rounded cheeks. The slap echoed through the warehouse, leaving her skin stinging and her breath hitching.
“Stop! Please!” she gasped.
“Quiet. You’re bleeding,” he countered, plopping her back into the chair and rebinding her wrists.
He knelt, gripping her injured foot with a firm, possessive hold. A silver knife appeared in his hand. He carefully slid the blade beneath the glass shard, popping it out with a surgical flick. Tira whimpered, but the terror was shifting into something hot and heavy.
“What is it, Sweetheart? Does this actually feel good to you?” he whispered, running the flat of the blade up and down her pantyhose, the steel cold against the fabric.
“NO! No it … doesn’t,” she breathed, though her chest heaved.
“Your body says otherwise.”
With a slow, deliberate motion, he sliced the nylon away, peeling the stockings back to reveal her pale skin. He dipped his fingers into the dripping wound, smearing the crimson liquid across her calf and ankle in a slow, artistic streak.
“You love this don’t you? The blood play,” he teased.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she moaned, her cheeks pink.
He tore a strip of fabric from his black shirt and bound the wound tightly. Then, leaning down, he flicked his tongue across the smeared blood on her skin, licking her clean with a slow, wet hunger.
Tira stared into the dark eyes beneath his mask, her pupils dilated. Despite the horror of the abduction, her wet pussy pulsed with a desperate, aching need. She gazed at him with raw lust, her gaze dropping to the massive, prominent bulge of his hard cock straining against his black trousers. He remained frozen, the tension between them thick enough to choke the air from the room.