“Mm hm.” She nods. “Well, I’m not at liberty to divulge specifics. But…” She rolls to standing. “I’m your security detail.” Evil eyebrow wiggle. “And I think you’re gonna like it. So, if you still want to do this, now might be a good time to get dressed. Oh. Here.” She goes back into the hall and grabs a massive package from a big department store. “This came for you.” Another evil grin. “Open it and see if there’s anything kidnapping appropriate inside.” She looks like she wants to open it herself.
“You do it.” Excitement swirling inside me, I watch her tear into the bag with glee and paw through what looks like thousands of dollars worth of clothes, finally pulling out a sweet little red dress with white polka dots and a prim collar. “Oh, I love that.”
“Put it on.” She scrabbles around in the pile of fabric. “With this. And this.” She throws me a demure, old-fashioned-looking white bra and cotton panty set.
I get up, pushing past my remaining prudish tendencies the way I would backstage during a quick change, and put the outfit on.
Max disappears and comes back with another package. This one shoes. After a minute, she opens up the pair Gigi clearly meant for me to wear with the dress. They’re cute little round-toed pumps, totally impractical for an outdoor camp environment, but seeing as how that hasn’t stopped anyone here yet, I don’t worry about it. I slide them on, move to the room’s full-length mirror, and grin.
“He’s gonna love that.”
My heart skips around in my chest. “Wow. I guess I’m doing it.”
Max wraps her arm around my waist and leans into me, watching me in the mirror. “You sure?”
“It’s Zion, right? He’s doing it?”
She gives a tiny nod.
“All right. I need makeup.”
“You’re beautiful without it.”
I make atskingsound. “Come on Max, you know how much he’ll like smearing it.”
“True.”
“And if I cry… Raccoon eyes.”
“Oh, yeah. Sadists dig that. Big time.”
Half an hour later, makeup done and fed—which I make a mental note to pay Lamé for—we head out.
“Nervous?” Max asks.
I take a last look around, notice my phone, with its approximately five million notifications. It can wait. Probably. Definitely. “Yes.”
“Good.” She tightens her hold on my arm. “You should be.”
* * *
Zion
There’s an art to good role play. Good kink in general, but this kind of setup in particular. In a scene like this one, we’re digging deep and pulling out some real nasty shit.
Easier for some of us than for others.
I picked Blade tonight for a couple reasons:
First off, he gets the deal with me and Twyla. He knows the limits, gets that I’m calling the shots. He’s nothing but a tool for us—actually, for her. I’m the boss, using what’s available to me and, the way I’ve set this up, Blade’s nothing but a glorified sex toy. Another cock, another mouth, another pair of hands. And the goal isn’t to get either of us off, although I figure it’ll happen. This is for Twyla. All for her.
From the moment we leave the clubhouse, we’ve taken on our specific roles. I feel him beside me, pumping himself up, getting mean, getting angry. The perfect sidekick to the sternly seething persona I’ve taken on.
We are pure aggression as we walk through camp side by side, sticking to the shadows. The few people who see us steer well clear.
Second, Blade is as experienced at this sort of scene as I am—if not more. He’s done many kidnappings, many hostage parties. And, since his divorce a few years ago, he’s been a loner, not remotely interested in attachments. An ideal wingman. Kind of how I used to be until Twyla came along.
We near the spot we’ve selected for the pickup and adrenaline rushes up and through me. It’s the pine smells, maybe, along with the quiet, which, together give the impression of being way out in the middle of nowhere. Someplace where she can scream, but not a goddamn soul will hear her.
