Girs Captive

Kirsty Dickins fidgeted with her bag. 'What are you doing?' she asked herself. Traveling over two hours outside of London to meet a stranger, whom she had been emailing for three months, was so unlike the sedate young professional. But after a disastrous break-up with her boyfriend of six years, the twenty-eight year old had decided to make drastic changes to her life.

Well, probably not drastic to most people. She had no plans to change her career, her work as an Occupational Therapist for children with autism was emotionally and financially rewarding. She was not going to move from her relatively well-to-do neighborhood in north London either. The flat that she had shared with two girlfriends since she completed university was perfect.

She had not even made drastic changes to her physical appearance, at five foot ten in bare feet she would have stood out in a crowd, even without the flaming red hair that fell half way down her back or the freckles that covered almost every single inch of her body. Of course, the break-up had motivated her to join the gym and six months later her curvy figure had never been in better shape. She might not make Vogue, but she could have done well moonlighting as a plus size model.

No, most people would consider the changes she made rather sedate. But they were radical to someone, who had spent the whole of her life in the same area of city, who had the same few friends since primary school, and who wanted nothing more than to please her doctor parents in her choice of careers and men. While they might have been a tad disappointed that their only child had chosen not to follow in their footsteps by becoming consultants, her role as a therapist fell within the realm of respectable for their upper middle class friends.

And Raj, the up and coming young pediatrician, more than met their standards. In fact, they had been more hurt by the betrayal than Kirsty when after so many years invested in their relationship he had succumbed to his family's demands and entered an arranged marriage with a second cousin from India.

Kirsty had been almost relieved at the turn of events. Her feelings for the man had long since cooled to professional respect and friendship, but she simply did not have the will to end their comfortable arrangement. It was not like she and Raj had ever really shared a great passion, certainly not like the attractions that she read about in her multitude of racy erotic romances on the e-reader that had been his final gift to her for Valentine's Day.

Of course, Kirsty had never really experienced that type of passion or even witnessed it first hand. Her parents, their friends and even her own were all in relationships based upon shared values, interests and companionship. Certainly not the wild and tumultuous sexual attractions portrayed in her books about ménages and BDSM. The very idea of that level of need and surrender was both intensely attractive and petrifying to Kirsty.

But over the past six months since her split with Raj, her repressed desires had increasingly overtaken her sensible side. She found herself spending hundreds of pounds each month on her erotic romances, devouring them at the pace of two a day sometimes. On the weekends, she could easily read ten or more.

That might be bad enough, but she had even created a profile on one of the fetish sites listed in the acknowledgements of her favorite author. Of course, she had not been so stupid as to post recognizable pictures of herself. She had merely cropped some to highlight her best features, her long legs in the mini-skirt that her friends had convinced her to wear for her one clubbing excursion with them after the breakup and another of the swell of her D-cup breasts spilling out of her favorite jumper as she leaned over to speak with someone. She had gotten dozens of private messages and friends' requests, but most had been so blatantly offensive that she had not bothered to respond.

Sven was different. Though he made no bones about being a Dom or even his desire to dominate her, he was both respectful and friendly. Their hundreds of emails had ranged from long tomes about the nature of Domination and submission to some rather racy descriptions of the things he would do to her that left her breathless and bothered.

Even when he was busy, he always found time for one line updates about his latest travels as an artic fisherman. While her parents had taken annual excursions to exotic locales around the globe, their summer holidays were always the same, two weeks at an all inclusive family resort on Spain's Costa del Sol. So places like St. Petersburg, Lubek, Germany and his adopted homeland in Finland intrigued her as much as his deep blue eyes had enthralled her from the moment she saw the picture on his profile.

No, there was no denying that this man fascinated and excited her in a way that Kirsty had never experienced. Something about his eyes and the polite, tersely worded emails belied something deeper, something as wild as the Artic seas that he fished and the rugged land which he called home. Sven had become her personal fantasy, every Dom she had ever read about rolled into one luscious package of deep blue eyes, shortly cropped dark blond hair, broad shoulders and towering strength. And she needed to get the man out of her system. Every night for the past three months, it had been his face that haunted her dreams. His large, calloused hands that had tormented her body with soft caresses and sharp blows to her bare bottom. His soft, full lips that crushed hers, stole her very breath and moved slowly and softly along every single inch of her body.

"Stop it, Kirsty," she reminded herself aloud as she packed her e-reader back into her over-sized bag. The very proper automated recording called her station as she readied herself to disembark.

She tugged at the hem of the mini-skirt in that picture. This was only the second time she had worn it, but this time she had donned a pair of thick, warm winter tights against the biting winds that she knew would blow off the English Channel. She wiggled into her thick winter coat, thankful that it would cover the generous amount of tits that popped out of her new corset. What had she been thinking, ordering such an outlandish, almost slutty thing from the Internet? She could not be sure if it was her excitement and fear at this clandestine meeting or the tightly tied ribbons and bone stays that made her breathing rapid and shallow.

But it was too late to consider that or any of the dozens of other questions that had plagued her for the past two hours, actually the past two days since agreeing to this crazy met. She inhaled deeply and stood slowly. She forced each foot in front of the other, watching her knee-high leather boots move across the worn floor of the train, willing her knees not to give out now.

A brief coffee with this mystery man, who had captured her imagination, that was all this was. Then she would be able to put him out of her mind, move on with her life, find another suitable boyfriend to please her parents even if he never made her pulse race the way it was now, the way it always did when she saw another of his emails in her inbox.

It was just her active imagination, too many erotic books and too long without even the sedate love makings of a man. There was nothing special about this one. Certainly nothing that would warrant this type of reaction. She had merely built him up in her mind, something larger than life. That was why this date, if you could call it that, was so important. She was certain that the reality of rough and weathered fisherman would dispel all her childish fantasies, she assured herself as she filed with the rest of people out of the car of the train. She squared her shoulders and ran through the speech that she had rehearsed for this moment as she fed her ticket through the automated turnstile.

The moment Kirsty looked up her breath froze in her lungs. Her heart threatened to pound out of her tight chest. Those knees that had been wobbly to begin with would have given way if not for the gigantic hand that reached across the stile to grip her elbow and draw her through the mechanism.

"Kirsten," his deep, heavily accented voice caressed her face as he bent over to brush a chaste kiss on her cheek. Few men needed to bend to kiss her, but this one would. "These are for you," he said as he handed her a bouquet of colorful flowers.

"Kirsty," she stammered at a loss for her rehearsed introduction.

His lips turned up at the corners, but she could not exactly call it a smile. More like that look her cat Thomas gave her when he was trying to manipulate her into giving him another treat. "No, Kirsten is your name in my language and that is what I shall call you."

She brought the flowers to her face and inhaled the exotic but subtle aroma. She could see that they were not your typical flower shop selection. "Thank you," she finely managed to whisper.

He nodded, "You are welcome. They are from my mother's green house. She thought you might like some token of our homeland. Artic wildflowers have always been her passion. She says they kept her sane while dealing with my father, uncles and all my brothers."

This was the most that Sven had revealed about himself in all their months of correspondence. It should have been reassuring, made the man more human, but it only deepened his mystery. Her heart stuttered for a moment and she considered turning back around, trying to catch the train back to London before it left the station. She was in over her head and she knew it.

But with those icy blue eyes staring into hers, she could not find the strength to say a single word. Let alone pull her arm from his firm grip, turn and walk back through the station. Run back would be a better plan, she thought as he drew her against him and wrapped his arm about her shoulder.

"Coffee, yes?" he said. She nodded as he led her out of the station and onto the High Street. Tilbury was like any other small port along the Channel, non-descript. Dead almost, but after the hustle and bustle of London, it held a quaint appeal all its own. They walked in silence for couple of minutes until they came to a chip shop. Sven stepped back, holding open the door for her. "I am sorry. There is not much here."

Kirsty smiled weakly and nodded at his words. She turned and looked back at the station, drawn to something. As if something warned her to run, run now. But she dismissed it. The man might not look exactly like his photograph but he appeared normal enough. She was being paranoid was all.

The next hour went quickly, two cups of coffee, decent conversation and more laughter than she could ever remember on a first date, not that this was an actual date, more like old friends meeting for drinks she supposed. Except you did not spend the whole time sneaking glances at your friends, wondering what they would look like naked, what they would be like in bed. No, even though Sven had been surprisingly easy to talk to she was still intensely nervous.

"I suppose I should let you get back to work, Sven. Catch the next train back to London," she stammered studying her hands around the plain white coffee mug. "It has been nice meeting you though."

He frowned, the move sent deep creases into his striking face. He was not handsome in the traditional sense. At almost forty, his skin was weathered by his job, small pathways of wrinkles about his mouth and across his forehead. His hair was longer than she had thought, falling just below his shoulder blades. His lips that she could not stop watching as he spoke were surrounded by a goatee and moustache. But it was those eyes still that Kirsty could not forget.

Not just the intense shade of blue or the twinkle when he laughed, which she got the feeling he did not do nearly enough, but there was something more. Intelligence, certainly. Authority, for sure. But something else too. Pain, perhaps.

She needed to stop thinking about this man, needed to go home, find some decent chap and settle down as her mother said. Not mysterious men, who reminded her of his Viking ancestors. Rough fishermen, who brought her exotic artic wildflowers, had no place in her ordered life. No matter how much her body ached to feel his touch. To have him do even one of the naughty things they had discussed in those emails.

"No," the single word was spoken in a low, calm voice, but one that demanded obedience. "I will show you the ship."

Kirsty knew that she should argue. Knew she should maker her escape now. But the truth was that this man still fascinated her. Perhaps seeing him in his natural setting would offer her some closure, some of the answers to this mystery that drew her like the proverbial moth to a flame.

Looking into the depths of those intense eyes, she thought, a very hot flame and I am going to get burnt. But still she found herself nodding her agreement. He held her coat while she worked her arms into it. His hand brushed briefly against the side of her breast and she exhaled.

It came out a pathetic, needy little whimper. She dropped her eyes in embarrassment. When she finally found the courage to look up at him, Sven was smiling, but not just any smile, a smile that made her want to dash for that station. 'Come in,' said the spider to the fly, she thought.

The walk to the harbor took them only moments. The town was tiny, smaller it seemed than the port, she thought as Sven spoke in quiet tones with the security guard before placing his hand once more under her elbow and guiding her towards a ship. It was smaller than most of the others around it. But much larger than anything she had ever been upon.

She watched from the peer as two other men wound rope and worked upon nets on the deck. They looked strangely familiar. Both men looked up as they approached. Sven spoke to them in another language, Swedish she assumed, but it was guttural and harsh, like the men themselves.

The two men studied her for a moment, then both nodded and smiled. Sven smiled tightly as he gripped her elbow, helping her aboard the vessel. "My brothers, Mikael and Bjӧrn."

The younger man, who looked to be about her own age, spoke. "Welcome to the Ӕgir's Captive."

Kirsty frowned at his words until she saw the name painted on the end of the boat. She turned to ask Sven about the odd name, but he was busy speaking with his brothers. She looked out at the sea as far as it stretched. On the other side of its choppy waters lay the wild and mysterious land that born these men. It might seem odd to think of Sweden in those terms but remembering the Viking's from British history, their Norse gods and surrounded by these men, the place seemed anything but civilized.

Sven took her elbow once more and guided her up a series of steep stairways. At the top of the last one sat a thoroughly modern command center. There were decks of computers, radar and GPS, those were just the equipment that she recognized. There was also a wheel that looked much as the one's she had seen in pirate movies, except that it was made of shiny metal rather than weathered wood. Everything in this room was out of place with the man before her.

He nodded, "My world."

She frowned, expecting him to elaborate, but he simply walked over to a bank of computers, working at them for a couple of minutes. Then he turned to her wit that smile that reminded her of the spider, "I will show you my living quarters."

Once more he took her by the elbow and led her down the stairs, he went before her, steadied her step when she might have fallen. This time rather than stop on the deck they turned and went lower, deep into the belly of the ship. It was another couple of flights before he guided her down a small hallway. He pointed out a kitchen that he called the galley and the bathroom. There was another room that he said belonged to his brothers. At the end of the hallway stood another doorway, he opened it and stepped to the side.

"Come in," he said with that smile. Kirsty's heart raced as she envisioned that spider, except this time she could see herself as a fly, her wings wrapped in the fine silken bounds of this man's web. She shivered and he ran those large hands up and down her arms.

Even through her thickest winter coat and jumper, she could feel his heat. "I am sorry. I have forgotten how cold the sea can be this time of year."

It was the most intimate he had been with her. Kirsty swallowed hard. This was not a good idea, some sane part of her protested. But looking up into those blue depths, she stepped inside the dark paneled cabin. She heard the click of the door closing behind her and turned in panic. His large frame blocked the doorway. Her heart raced wildly in her chest. But he made no move towards her, merely standing there studying her.

"We should probably head back to the station now," she stammered.

"Later," he said crossing the distance to come stand in front of her. "Take off your coat," the words might have the trappings of polite conversation, but the tone was pure command. Looking up into those eyes, her brain considered arguing, but it was too late, her fingers were already trembling as they obeyed. When the last button sprung free, his hands at her shoulders brushed it away. The coat fell on the floor at her feet.

Those lips that had fascinated her as he spoke captured hers. There was no other word for it, captured, conquered, claimed. There was nothing either tentative or polite about this kiss. It was as wild and untamed as the man himself. And unlike anything that Kirsty had ever experienced. It went on and on, at times she felt as if he were sucking the very breath from her body, her will from her soul. When he finally drew back she was hanging helplessly against him. Her body plastered against his much larger, much harder one.

"Take off your clothes."

Panic rose in her once more. She started to shake her head, but his hands were already beneath her jumper. Calloused fingers caressed the soft skin of her abdomen. She bit her lip to keep from moaning at the intoxicating feel of his caress. "I think I should go now," she whispered.

"I told you to take off the clothes," his words were spoken against her ear as he bent down. When she would have taken a step back, his teeth sank deep into the lobe, pinning her, holding her in place. His hands covered her breasts, working the soft flesh, kneading it as one might dough. His thumbs brushed back and forth across the throbbing tips and she moaned as he bit down harder on her ear.

One hand abandoned her breast and she whimpered at its loss. It traversed back down across the suddenly sensitive skin of her stomach, but this time it went lower. He found the button of her jean skirt, it melted away along with the zipper. His hand worked its way inside her tights until his fingers were brushing against her mound.

"Open," he growled into her ear as he continued to bite and pull at her tender lobe.

She shook her head even as her legs spread open at his command. What was this man doing to her? For the first time, she sensed how deep the danger really was. She had been so careful that no one discover her little fetish that she had not told a single soul where she was going. "Oh god," she whispered as the revelation hit her and his fingers slipped inside her wet depths. But the thought could not manage to break through the intense pleasure he was forcing upon her helpless body. His fingers plunged impossibly deep inside of her, his fingers pinched and pulled at her taut nipple through her lace bra and his teeth scored the rim of her ear as he whispered, "If you will not take them off, I will."

She shook her head at his bold words, tried to bring her hands up to push at his chest, but her enter upper body was captive in the thick confines of her jumper as he jerked it over her head. She realized then that sometime during their kiss he must have unsnapped her bra because it dangled limply from her arm several inches from her chest. She reached up to cover her bare breasts, but he simply tugged her bra down until it was wrapped securely around one wrist. He drew both her arms behind her back and tied them there using the lacy material. The positioned forced her chest out, offered her breasts up to him. But he had moved on.