Dear Readers,
"Capo" marks my first-ever attempt at story-writing -- certainly my first foray into publicly read erotica. What an extraordinary and deeply humbling experience!
Thank
you
for your comments and encouragement; your feedback is tremendously appreciated.
If any of you fall into the "long-time reader/never submitted" category, I encourage you to take up the pen (or open the Word doc); it's quite a bit of fun.
Finally, for anyone chomping at the bit to see some hard-core action... be patient. I promise it will come.
All the best -- Ms. Archer
CHAPTER TWO
Samantha awoke with a start; she found herself in utter darkness, but the ache in her jaw and the plush, unfamiliar bedding confirmed the sickening realization. It wasn't a dream. She was a hostage.
She remembered sobbing over the comforter after they locked her in the room. She must have crashed. What time was it?? She leaned across the bed and fumbled around the lamp on the nightstand until she felt the click, bathing the room in an ethereal golden light.
The room seemed more spacious now -- it was at least three times the size of her own. The walls, a dark pewter, were adorned with massive gold-gilded frames; inside them lay sketches of neoclassical figures in various states of repose.
The wall opposite her was a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, boasting a staggering number of leather-bound volumes. Across her four-post bed sat a large crème-colored couch. The end-table next to it bore a silver bowl of fresh fruit; a tangible still-life. An enormous charcoal, shag-woven rug lay sprawled on the polished walnut flooring.
As lockups go, it would appear I got the luck of the draw
, Samantha couldn't help musing to herself.
No windows. And no television. Samantha's eyes darted around the room in search of any tools she might employ to her advantage. There were fragrant candles in glass votives, but no matches to be found. Throwing off the considerable weight of her sateen comforter, Samantha steadied herself as she stepped out of bed. She took notice of the security camera discreetly positioned in the top corner of her room and scowled.
Beyond the partial wall supporting her bed, Samantha found a corridor leading to the bathroom; a palatial space framed with ruggedly hewn limestone. The shower was, unsurprisingly, absurdly large -- three glass panes enclosed two oversized shower heads mounted in the white stone wall; in one corner a carved stone slab protruded from the limestone, a low-lying bench.
She warily scanned the room; there were no cameras here, that she could find. Walking toward the vanity, she found herself admiring the potted planter of purple orchids in full-bloom -
phalaenopsis
, Samantha noted.
One glance at the mirror, and she recoiled at the reflection before her. A dark nebula of purple and pink covered much of the left side of her face. In morbid fascination she stepped in closer. She'd gotten bruises before -- they were a regular occurrence in training -- but never like this. Gingerly, her fingertips traced the darkest part and she winced. It smarted something fierce.
Her eyes were tear-stained with traces of bleeding mascara, her hair matted. They'd left her in her own clothes, although her gear belt and shoes were now gone. She felt dingy, fatigued. With a wary glance at the shower, she ambled back to the bedroom.
On the wall she noticed an antique clock; it read 6:25.
A.M. or P.M.?
She realized she didn't care. She hoped to sleep forever; tucked away from any tactile reminder of her new hell.
* * *
It was A.M.
The assumption was confirmed with a knock at her door within what seemed like minutes after dozing off. Samantha kept her eyes closed as she heard the door open. She heard clinking as something was placed on the floor, then the door-latch closed and locked. It only took a moment before the aroma of what had to be the most tantalizing breakfast wafted through to fill the room.
Pulling the comforter over her head, Samantha turned and committed herself to sleep. She felt too sick to eat.
* * *
For the next two days, Samantha lay in bed. She was left utterly alone, unharmed and in a realm of churning mental replay and self-reprimand. She was gratified to learn that this sudden onset of depression enabled her to sleep more than she ever had in her life. The only interruptions to her lethargic escape included the occasional need to relieve herself - which stopped altogether after the first day -- and the prompt, thrice-daily delivery of her food, which assaulted her senses with a barrage of mouthwatering temptations. Each time she would hold a pillow to her growling stomach and constrain herself to the misery of her uncertain fate.
By the time breakfast arrived the third day, Sam could bear it no longer. She promptly carried the plate to the bathroom and disposed of its offerings in the toilet. She grimaced at the powdered French toast circling its way to oblivion, before striding toward the sink to allow herself a rare intake of faucet water.
* * *
That night, Samantha awoke to the transcendent smell of broiled halibut and garlic. She'd never liked fish, but rolled over and allowed herself to breathe in the undeniably glorious aroma.
"Are there any particular dietary restrictions you care to tell me about, or have you just resolved to behave as stupidly as you can?" a voice spoke from the darkness.
Samantha bolted upright in her bed to see Franco slouched against the far corner of her room. His arms were crossed and his expression veiled, a single eyebrow cocked as he watched her.
"What the fuck are you doing in my room?" she challenged.
"
Your room?
" he asked pointedly. "Ms. Brier, one would think it abundantly obvious you're in no position to make any sort of stipulation -- least of all from me," he said dryly.
Samantha glowered at him.
"Why aren't you eating," he demanded.
"I choose not to," she replied, looking away. "If this is the life you've relegated me to, I choose not to live," she said simply.
Franco started to advance. "Samantha," he spoke softly. "You do realize I could make this so.. much.. worse for you," he said, punctuating each word with a step toward her. Samantha's sideway glance across the opulent room confirmed the veracity his statement. Reluctantly, she nodded once.
"Tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"That you understand how much worse it could be."
Samantha blinked. "Say the words."
"I understand... how much worse it could be for me."
The utterance brought a dark smile to Franco's lips.
