Taking Control is not just a graphic BDSM story and sex novel, but a full length dark contemporary thriller in 10 parts.
With adult themed erotic romance, and explicit sexual content, it involves Ava and Lorenzo's unusual sex life and sub and dom predilections and certainly gets darker as it progresses.
Readers should bear in mind this story is pure fantasy and includes some of the more unusual and painful BDSM themes. This particular chapter is about what happens to James and has less sex but does contain medical fetishes and surgery.
And, once you've read each chapter, if you like it, please rate it!
Fenlands
Four weeks later two Serbian men, part paid in advance by Ava, were waiting in the dark. James emerged from his favourite pub at close to midnight, drunk as usual.
They had found his apartment easily, tracking him until he reached one of the darker streets. Lazar came up silently behind him and felled him with a single blow. With Milos grabbing his ankles, and Lazar his head, they dumped James unceremoniously into the back of a recently stolen black cargo van.
James Rix came to on the oily floor of the van, his head bouncing up and down, as the vehicle rolled heavily across the soft ground. He remembered nothing after walking back from the Duke of York pub.
There wasn't a glimmer of light through the thick blindfold, and his hands were expertly tied behind his back, with fresh nylon climbing rope. Had he been in a pub fight? But then wouldn't he remember it? His jaw was agony, and he wondered if it had been broken. Maybe he'd pissed off some husband whose wife he'd shagged. It wouldn't be the first time that had happened.
After half an hour of being thrown around, from one side of the van to the other, the vehicle came to a sudden halt. He heard both front doors opening. That meant two people. Seconds later, the back doors were wrenched open with a squeal, and the blindfold pulled unceremoniously off his head. Light flooded in and he blinked furiously to try and adjust his eyes to the terrifying scene outside.
When his eyes finally got accustomed to the sun's glare, he began to make out the enormous figures standing in front of him, two huge men in black skis masks and dark overalls, standing by the rear doors of the van. When he saw the long weapons, his bladder emptied.
Out in the fens, James had his legs, arms and hands soundly and expertly beaten with a pickaxe handle, a two pound and a four-pound hammer and a crowbar. His finger and toes were broken with pliers, for good measure. Despite the pain, they kept him conscious for as long as possible. The woman with the contract had insisted on that, as she had insisted that they memorise what they did to him, and then record the details on a mobile they'd been given.
They left James face up, barely breathing, lying in a cold fenland bog. It was Lazar who made the notes of their encounter on the way back to the city, as he was the only one who could write English.
When Tolgar met Ava for payment, she read the brief report from the Serbian and then listened, silently and intently, to the thorough recorded message of how James had met his fate. She nodded, occasionally asking a question of Tolgar about the details of the planned revenge she had ordered meted out on James.
She heard Lazar relaying, in his deep, icy and clipped accent, exactly what had happened to James. How he'd been left in the icy marshland fens that night, as well as the specifics of damaged bones and muscles Lazar's spelling likely couldn't have coped with.
She'd nodded one final time, handing over a cash envelope, the other half of the payment she'd promised them for the risky job.
James might live or die out there, but frankly she didn't care.
She was done with him. It was time to get on with her life.
But what that life was all about, and who she wanted to share it with, she was only just beginning to work out.
Blackout
When James woke everything was dark outside. He was in a world dominated by nothing but pain. His whole chest was seared in a bright, hot agony. Half buried in the rich peaty ooze, his face felt like a post-match football. He experimented with the tiniest of movements of his head, trying desperately to get his nose and mouth out of the foul stench of the thick, gloopy liquid around him.
Moving his head slightly to one side, he was thankful his neck didn't appear broken. He had a racking pain in his arms and hands, where his fingers had been so nonchalantly and expertly mangled by the two men wielding the heavy hammers and crowbar.
Gummy and glued shut, he tried opening his eyes, but could see little. His mouth was bone dry. He ran his tongue over his blistered and split lips to try and moisten them. From the iron taste he realised the sticky mixture was his own blood, oozing from head wounds from his thorough beating. He was in very bad shape, but alive, just.
He wondered about that briefly. It would have been all too easy for them to have pummelled him to death with the weapons the two large thugs had used, so he must be alive by choice. But whose choice? The two men had been silent throughout the beating, taking it in turns with their primitive array of weapons and tools.
True, he'd pissed off many business rivals over the years, but this was far too brutish for anyone from a rival finance organisation. No, it had to be something personal, some slight he'd made. Some comment he'd made in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Some idiotic remark he'd come out with. Probably when drunk or high most likely, which he admitted to himself was pretty often these days.
If he was honest, his list of business and other assorted enemies was a long one. He grudgingly admitted to himself that he was surprised what had just happened hadn't come many years before.
