You'll Answer To Me Read online

  She studied him for a second, while fast-forwarding in her mind through a host of possibilities, none of which was particularly disturbing. At last she blurted out, “If you’re concerned about my being taken advantage of sexually, don’t be.”

  Her blunt declaration took him by surprise, but then he almost looked relieved. “I guess I shouldn’t have been worried about your delicate sensibilities. You have had plenty of experience. But I’m not sure that running around with a bunch of fawning twenty-year olds hanging onto your skirts is exactly the kind of situation you might face.”

  “You’d be surprised the men I’ve handled in my short life, and I’m not talking about the men who make headlines trying to get into my pants.” The scared little girl had been replaced by the slightly jaded, but very savvy sounding young Rebby she was to her avid fans who lapped up every juicy detail of her scandalous life.

  “You’re not getting it, Rebecca. Let’s hope my friend will be willing to take you. Any other arrangement comes with a great deal of risk. There are men who will pay great sums of money to acquire females who are moldable. Once they have you, you’re at their mercy. They’ll expect some degree of subservience – indeed, some will demand your submission – in ways you can hardly fathom now. I can’t state this any plainer than this: you may end up in surroundings as luxurious as these, or you could end up in a cage.” Rebecca’s cocky confidence fled and her eyes went wide with alarm. “Yes, a cage. I’m not making this up just to scare you. If Warren steps in, I know you’ll be safe; if not, it’s out of my hands. My contact assures me that he weeds out the riff-raff and the truly demented, but he’s out to make a buck and how diligent he is with background checks, I can’t say.”

  “But a cage?”

  “It’s not likely, but not out of the realm of possibility. Some of these men are into alternative lifestyles, spanking, bondage, pretty much any kink you can suggest. Others are strict disciplinarians who won’t hesitate to punish you if you fail to obey their command – or just because they can. Wherever you land, it will be no picnic in the park, some cushy place where you can start your shenanigans where you left off.”

  If he was saying these things to shock her, the effort was having little effect, at least outwardly. Though previously distraught, she barely flinched as he rattled off the cold hard facts.

  “Let’s just hope that Warren rises to your cause.”

  She was hesitant, scared out of her wits to be sure, but at the same time she was curiously aroused, even titillated, by the verboten nature of what Arthur described.

  “So, how would this work? What do I do?”

  “I send you to the summerhouse as soon as we can get you out of here. You’ll have to drive yourself, but there should be little problem as long as you get away within the hour. You’ll be picked up there within a day or two, no longer than that with the police out to find you. You’ll need to sign papers granting Strickland the authority to place you, after that, it’s out of my hands, and yours. If all goes smoothly, you’ll be far across the world in a matter of days on your way to a new life…a roll of the dice, you might say.”

  “And I suppose getting out of this would be difficult.”

  “Indeed,” he said as he shook his head. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this, Rebecca. It’s possible, not likely, but possible that you could get trapped with no way out and no recourse.”

  “And my access to you would be limited?”

  “Exactly.”

  By the time they had reached this point in the discussion, Rebecca was as sane and clear-headed as she’s been before the night began. She could feel the urgency present in the moment but she wouldn’t be rushed.

  “And my other options… again?”

  He practically growled at her, his reply laced with scorn, “You have two: surrender to the police, let the legal system run its course and hope for the best; or take off on your own and hope you can escape those who will relentlessly pursue you.” He looked at her straight on, no longer interested in further discussion. “So, what will it be, Rebecca? You need to decide now. As it is, you’re wasting precious minutes.”

  She hesitated still, but only for a moment, then taking a deep breath and finally sitting up straight, as she used to see Lavinia do when she was making an announcement, she said quite calmly, “All right then, if you’ll excuse me, I need to pack a few things and head for the summer house.” She rose to her feet. “I won’t be five minutes.”

  Rising to her feet like the doomed on the way to the gallows, she carefully picked her way through the spattered blood until she was out the door. The power was still out, but the slowly receding storm continued to provide enough light to make it safely to the top of the stairs.

  ***

  Rebecca balked when he ordered her into the trunk of his car.

  “You signed the papers, girl. You either climb in on your own, or I’ll tie you up and throw you in.” The bald, gruff, barrel-chested brute was definitely big enough to follow through and not break a sweat.

  “My choice, right?” she spit out the sarcastic reply.

  “Yep. You refuse, you can always stay here. Doesn’t matter much to me. I get paid either way.”

  Rebecca didn’t know what to make of the man. He was obviously not impressed with who she was, and yet, she found that strangely refreshing after putting up with sycophants for so many months. Besides, his rugged working class demeanor was curiously attractive, and so unlike the men she was accustomed to.

  “All right. So I ride in the trunk. But this better not take long.” Without another protest, she climbed in.

  Arriving at the wharf, Rebecca was quickly hustled out of the trunk and into a small room in the back of the warehouse behind dozens of packing crates headed for shipment overseas. Strickland shoved her into a chair, and leveled her with an imperious stare. “Stay put until I get back.” He turned, about to leave the room, but then abruptly turned back; and though he’d been in a frenzied rush before, he took his time now. “You have a reputation for being a real slut. That true?”

  The question took her by surprise, and quite out of character for Rebecca Wittendon, there was no flippant comeback on the tip of her tongue. She was dead tired from the chaos of the last 24 hours, her body ached from the miserable ride and her nerves were shot. She wanted to do nothing but put her head to a pillow and sleep. Still… she couldn’t ignore the man. Something in his dark brown eyes, something distinctly sexual and raw provoked her. She responded with a shudder that began at her hunched shoulders and traveled all the way through her to the fiery swamp deep inside her crotch. Somewhere in the rough journey from the trunk of the car to this back room, her sexual body had awakened. Maybe it was his forceful hands, his unwavering resolve, the brusque words. Maybe she was just an adrenalin junkie and this was her latest fix. Regardless of the cause, the eroticism that gripped her now was as fierce as it was bewildering, and though she’d had no intention of seducing the man, the female wiles that served her well as a promiscuous socialite seemed to kick in unconsciously. She coyly gazed at the hovering man with her eyes exuding the seductive allure of a woman on the prowl. Speaking in a deep and breathless whisper, she said, “Why would you ask?”

  “You look like you’d be easy,” he replied.

  Her eyes lit flirtatiously. “I should be offended by your question, Mr. Strickland.”

  “And are you? Offended?”

  In the space of minutes something had shifted between them, a certain understanding reached.

  She smiled as if that were answer enough, and strolling back to her, he placed a hand on her cheek, and gave it a soft tap. When she failed to balk, he slapped a little harder and she flinched, feeling the force of the slap all the way to her toes.

  A third slap and her sex burst with desire falling out all around her. “Tension… just the tension,” she explained to herself, though there was no use arguing with the fact that the man turned her on, the situation turned her on; in fact, she’d drawn f
rom this startling series of circumstances the most exhilarating thrill she’d had in months. She didn’t know how to react any other way than sexually.

  When he grabbed her by the hair, pulled her to her feet and shoved her toward the wall, she practically sighed with relief. Strickland saw it all, everything about her desire, the seduction, the need to be fucked, as if she were an open book. “You know, you’re as real as your reputation, Miss Rebecca Wittendon,” he announced.

  “Oh, I’m that and a lot more.”

  Laying a palm against her crotch, he squeezed. “Pussy hot?”

  Hot, throbbing and wet, she wanted to say. Instead, she answered with a lust-filled gaze and ground her sex against his hand.

  “You wanna get fucked, don’t ya, babe?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” he laughed darkly. “There’s no maybe here. You want it and you want it bad.” He was right about that. He squeezed her crotch again, shaking it hard. “So beg,” he said.

  “I never beg,” she said. Although she tried to mimic the proud defiance she was known for, she was already too weakened by his dominance to give her protest much strength.

  Strickland smirked from ear to ear. Then tugging her skirt up over her hips, he wiggled a finger inside her panties, slipped it beyond the wet doorway, and brought it out again with juices glistening on the surface.

  “Lick it, slut!” he said and he shoved it into her mouth. She licked because she had no choice, because she couldn’t stop herself, because the rebellious wild girl thrived on challenges such as these. When he finally pulled the finger out, he sneered as he had before, knowing he had the upper hand. He repeatedly smacked her pussy with his palm, then for a time he fucked her with his fingers; then he moved back and forth from smacks to fucking until her body writhed wildly against his hand and she was about to explode in a violent orgasm.

  “Yes, yes, fuck me!” she seethed in a heavy whisper. Then more urgently, because he continued the unbearable tease, she practically screamed, “Fuck me, you bastard! Just do it!”

  “Ah yes, that’s what I like to hear. Say it again, sweetheart…and look in my eyes this time.”

  She scowled, angry and frustrated, then met his horny gaze with her own. “Fuck me! Please will you fuck my cunt!” She never needed it more than now.

  His torment finally stopped, though his hand remained pressed against her pussy.

  “’Fraid it’s not your pussy I want, slut,” and he withdrew his hand from her steamy cunt. “I either sink my cock inside your ass, or walk away and leave you hanging.”

  She wanted to lash back and fight him off; take a day’s worth of grief and spew it out with the explosive anger that fired within. Yet, just as demanding was that something desperately needy inside her that wanted him no matter how roughly he took her.

  “Do I have to beg for that, too?” she asked.

  “You do what you’re told… that’s the life that awaits you, girl. No more little rich girl. No more calling the shots. Better to get used to it now,” he mocked. Before she could respond, he spun her around and pressed her hard against the cold brick wall. He tore at her thong until it was little more than shreds, then pried apart her round, rear cheeks, fishing between them for the tight backdoor.

  After rubbing the entrance with her own juices, he pressed his hard-on against the taut rosette and suddenly lunged full force, spearing her body with the hefty organ.

  She momentarily flinched, feeling the erection stretch the opening wide. Then as he began to slowly piston in and out, her body bristled with emotion. Overcome with grief, tears spilled from her burning eyes, while a glut of images flooded into her mind of past scenes, old flames, rough sex. As the fucking picked up speed, he pounded her into the brick, and the pictures vanished. All that was left was the feeling in her ass and the steadily rising pleasure. The pleasure wasn’t pretty in scenes like this; it was hot and raw and exactly what the dark heart of her spirit yearned for and what her hungry body craved. The life she knew had been destroyed, what remained was sex, the only something that could stem the grief and propel her forward into a new life miles and miles from home.

  For a moment when he paused mid-thrust, their tiny world fell silent. From the warehouse beyond they heard voices and a noisy racket close by.

  “Shush!” he hissed in her ear. “Don’t make a peep or I’ll slap you back to next Sunday.” He grabbed her long dark locks inside his fist and held her face tight against the hard surface. He lunged hard again, sending his spear deeper into her anal cavern.

  As Strickland’s erection swelled within her, the tension in her body gave way and began to move its way outward from her dark center. She wanted to scream, “yes yes yes” as he drilled her, but her pretty pink lips were sealed shut, wanting no part of ‘next Sunday’, whatever the hell that meant. What mattered now was getting off and nothing would get in the way of that. Maybe for once she’d have enough of the hard sex her demented fantasies craved.

  She hoped whoever took her in would use as she was being used now, ruthlessly and without mercy, not caring if she hurt. She relished the hurt. She wanted the searing pain to feel alive. The ‘sassy brat’ inside her wanted to be punished – in the opinion of her inner judge, she’d never been punished enough.

  Rebellion had taught her a few things – that men coveted her well-toned body; that she could have anything she wanted when she turned on her charm; and that hard anal was better than vaginal any day. Not that she’d complain about any kind of sex. Once, an exhausted lover called her a narcissistic masochistic nympho. She couldn’t tell if this reflected his admiration or disgust, but she didn’t care; she treasured the name as much as she did her secret sex life.

  She was flying in subspace by the time Strickland pulled out of her ass and dripped the remains of his cum down the back of her thighs. She continued to spasm, her inner muscles clenched and her clit was alive like it had never been. However, before she had enough to suit her, before her fingers could manipulate the stimulated bud, Strickland yanked her from the sensuous ecstasy and without giving her a chance to clean up, he marched her out the door and through the rain-swollen night to the freighter on Pier 13.

  Up the gangplank, down the hold, she felt like a 17th century maiden headed to the New World. Finally the crate appeared…the 5 x 5 foot wooden container where she’d spend a significant number of hours as the ship churned through the Atlantic waters to New York harbor. Strickland said the crate was for her protection, and by the looks of the motley freighter crew she was almost thankful to be a caged slave during the trip. While getting fucked in the ass by Strickland seemed like a rite of passage, she had no interest in becoming a ship slave, ready for any horny sailor who wanted to dip his rod.

  “You’ll stay in here a few hours until we’re underway, then maybe we’ll be able to let you out, long as you follow the rules. It won’t be long,” he assured her, as she settled into the crate and watched alarmed as a burlap cover was lowered over the thing. She fought the urge to panic and repeatedly reminded herself that New York was just not that far from London. She was running for her life – extraordinary circumstances could be expected.

  Chapter One

  Eleven years later…

  Five years had passed since she’d seen the winery, the stables, the fields of grapes, the house, and the beautiful rolling valley where she’d spent five years as Alexa Dupree, indentured servant to Warren Tatum. The contracted ten-year tenure ended prematurely and in spectacular fashion, when a riding accident, a twist of the neck, ended the life of the man who held her fate in his hands. Except for the occasional verboten sexual moment she enjoyed in the arms of his winery foreman Bo Hitchcock, Alexa had no reason to stay in the valley once Tatum was gone. She’d immediately thought of home, of bustling London streets and the salty air surrounding the summer cottage where she’d spent her happiest days as Phillip Wittendon’s daughter. But England was not safe for her – and it could never be home again, not as long as the
murder of Phillip Wittendon remained unsolved. A quick Internet search would reveal that Inspector Harriman was still doggedly pursuing the case and she was still his primary suspect.

  Not surprisingly, when Warren met his demise, she turned to the California coast, to its fragrant salt air and the anonymity of its small coastal towns; perhaps reminiscent of home in England, perhaps just the most convenient place to land after five years in her sheltered world. She wasn’t yet ready to embark on a big adventure. She could have gone anywhere in the United States that caught her fancy, but she didn’t have the courage; plus she wasn’t exactly in the country legally, even though Warren had made sure she had adequate documentation should any question about her identity arise.

  That’s not to minimize the impact of Warren’s death. With his passing, she leapt into her newly found freedom with winged feet. Ready for a new life, the high-spirited Alexa Dupree landed a job at a rustic resort just off Hwy 1, not far from Mendocino. She could drink in all the salt air she could stand and let the memories of home in England haunt her with every breath. The move had been good for her. She’d established herself in the community as a pleasant and friendly young woman, willing to help in a pinch, but unwilling to discuss her past. About that little was known. She would easily divert the conversation if someone questioned her about her family or where she came from. She left her questioners to the vague impression that her life had been rough and she was happy not to think about it now.