Hostage Of My Heart Ch 02

Author's Note: Hostage of my Heart is a four-part series. While it's possible to read the sections out of order and not get [too] lost, there's an actual story to back up all the naughty bits, and it will be more fun if you start at the beginning!

Also: If you read Chapter 1 when it first came out, I've made a couple of small additions since then. You won't miss anything major if you don't reread it- you might not even notice the changes- but isn't rereading your favorite stories always fun?

Thanks for reading and commenting!

-Stefanie

-- o --

Waiting in the conference room as Sainte had instructed, Helena amused herself by calling Opal names while Richard just watched with predatory eyes. Opal ignored them, trying to avoid the nerve-racking fear that Rand and the others weren't carrying equipment. In a very short time, he'd become a touchstone for her, something to cling to while enduring this ordeal. If they made it through alive, Opal planned on learning more about Rand than the size of his cock, though that was impressive enough. She couldn't allow herself to imagine anything preventing that.

When Sainte arrived, he perched a hip on the table next to Opal, much too close.

She kept her hands folded in her lap and her eyes down, trying not to be afraid.

"Gather 'round, group." Sainte had been paying attention to everyone's expressions during and after the Lord-and-Lady fuck routine and noticed who seemed sympathetic to Opal's plight and who seemed... not. These two topped the list of "not", though the old lady and Gavin were possibilities, too. The chicklets would be useless for what he had planned, though Opal might be inclined to protect the two younger women. That could be interesting.

Helena mimicked their captor's pose on Opal's left side, while Richard stood behind her left shoulder, leaning against the window.

Sainte continued to stare at Opal. "So, Opal... look at me, honey."

Her eyes twitched up to his face.

The agitation flickering beneath her sable lashes made him instantly, painfully, deliciously hard. "You're quite the little slut, aren't you?"

Helena laughed.

Opal didn't bother hiding the wince, but she didn't answer him, either. Saying yes wouldn't help her and saying no could hurt.

Sainte looked her up and down. "Stand up, honey."

Slowly, Opal rose, and Sainte nudged her chair aside with his foot. It rolled to a stop just beyond Richard's feet.

She stood quietly in the center of a triangle formed by two people who actively disliked her and one sadist-slash-psychopath. Quivers ran up and down her spine. Opal had trouble believing they weren't visible on the surface of her body, but no one else appeared to notice them.

"I was wondering exactly how much of a slut you are, Opal... will you fuck anyone with the same enthusiasm you showed for Sir Rand? Hmm?"

She felt compelled to answer that one. It seemed dangerous not to. "No, sir. He... he reminded me of someone else I cared for." It made as much sense as anything.

Sainte continued to stare at her. "Take your shirt off, honey."

Opal froze. She wasn't at all surprised, but she couldn't do it.

Sainte held her eyes, his stare promising dire punishment for disobedience, but he didn't yet reach out to fulfill the warning. "Opal."

She still didn't move. Opal's brain screeched at her to submit, but her hands wouldn't budge.

Sainte turned his head. "Helena, baby, would you help Opal with that blouse?"

Helena giggled. "Yes, sir."

She stepped forward to face Opal.

Helena was five inches taller than Opal, four inches wider at the shoulders, and she outweighed Opal by at least twenty pounds, but Opal had experience that the privileged, pampered receptionist couldn't have imagined.

She didn't take her eyes off Sainte. When Helena's fingers touched Opal's top button, she tensed. Without shifting her feet, Opal drew her head back and slammed her forehead violently forward into Helena's face.

Helena screamed and bent at the waist, clutching her bleeding, broken nose.

Opal took a step back and pushed Helena's head down into the path of her upcoming knee. In the breath of quiet after Helena's agonized howl, the room's three other occupants heard bones snapping as Opal's knee encountered the other woman's hands.

Fortunately for the redhead, her breaking fingers slowed Opal's knee enough so her teeth shook, but she got to keep most of them, and her jaw didn't crack. She didn't know it, though. She went down like a ton of bricks.

Opal looked at Sainte in time to see the backhand, but there was no place to go. The heavy, bronzed fist connected with her temple and she collapsed, too.

Richard caught her halfway to the floor.

Sainte bent to collect Helena. Tucking the redhead's limp form beneath his arm like a sack of birdseed, he nodded, the flat black irises pointing at Opal. "Get her clothes off, will you, Dick?"

Richard smiled, an eerie echo of the criminal's sadistic grin. "Yes, sir."

-- o --

Sainte handed Helena's limp form to Terry. "Throw her- where are you putting them after they eat?"

Terry gestured to a door behind Sainte marked "Supplies."

"Okay, toss her in there." Sainte continued. "Give the others a bottle of water and a roll of paper towels in case they want to clean her up when they get in there."

When he returned to the conference room, Opal was lying full-length on the table, legs spread, arms akimbo, all her charms exposed.

Sainte smiled at the sight. "Her and Helena don't get along, huh?"

Richard laughed.

"And you? How about you, Dick?"

He shrugged. "She thinks she's too good for the rest of us."

Sainte's smile didn't change. He'd been right: most of the group had lied about knowing her... and little Opal must have refused Dick's advances at some point in the past. This should be fun.

He leaned over Opal on the table, patting her cheeks. "Opal." She looked like a younger version of Sainte's ex-wife, and a carbon copy of what he assumed his daughter would look like in eight or ten years, not that Sainte would ever know. Their testimony was the reason he'd been doing ten-to-fifteen in upstate New York; both wife and daughter had vanished into witness protection when the trial was over.

"Opal? Opal, honey, wake up."

Opal's eyes blinked open a couple of times before they cleared, and it took almost a minute for her to realize she was naked. She tried to sit up and, when Sainte prevented it, she began to fight against his hold. Richard got one ankle and lunged for the other, but Sainte just slid his hand from her shoulder to her throat and pressed gently. "Stop it, Opal."

She stilled immediately, and he released the stricture on her windpipe.

"That was a nifty move with Helena, Opal. You're not planning on trying anything like that with me, are you?"

She shook her head slightly, "No, sir."

"Good girl." He patted her cheek again. "Now, as I was saying, I'd like to see exactly how slutty you are, so you're going to spend a few minutes getting to know Dick a little better. You do know Dick, right, Opal?"

The flash of loathing in her eyes answered two of Sainte's questions.

"Yes, sir."

"You don't like him, though, do you, Opal?"

She considered lying, but didn't think he'd believe her. "No, sir, I don't."

Sainte nodded, satisfied. "Okay, then, I'm going to let go of you, but I'd like to remind you that Dick and I are bigger and undoubtedly smarter than Helena, and you'd be wise to behave."

He released her throat without another word, nodding at Dick to release her legs.

"Okay, Dick, pull up a chair."

Nonplussed, Richard did as Sainte directed.

"Opal, swing your ass around and pretend Dick's your GYN guy."

Panicky, but trapped, she hesitated a second too long, and Sainte grabbed the same breast he'd abused earlier. It was already covered with storm clouds of black-and-blue, and Opal screamed, holding his wrist and scrabbling with her heels to go where the hand directed.

When Sainte let go, her toes were facing Dick.

"Okay, honey, scoot down and put your feet on the arms of his chair, just like the stirrups, that's right."

Opal stared at the ceiling and did as her captor requested, placing her feet on either side of Richard's lean, muscular body without ever looking at him. Tears dripped from her temples into her hairline, soaking her scalp.

Through the thick plates of insulated glass, over the low hum of the building's inner life, she could still hear the wind's roar. If she looked, she knew she'd see the snow flying past in horizontal waves. It got dark so early this time of year that she'd seen the same dim view a dozen times already. The light from the office only illuminated the first foot of the endless ribbon of flakes. In winds this strong, the parking lot lights wouldn't even be visible through the whirling clouds of grey and white.

Sainte put both hands on the table near her shoulders, looming over her, his broad, black-clad body blocking out the glow of the subtle, recessed lighting. "Okay, let your knees fall open, honey. That's what the doc says, right, Opal?"

He didn't seem to require an answer, which was good, because she couldn't have answered him without sobbing aloud.

"Okay, Dick. I'm going to assume a good-looking boy like you has seen one or two of these things before, right?"

Dick flashed neon-white teeth at their captor, his eyes on Opal's pussy. He'd already had his finger up her snatch when he stripped her clothes off. It was still wet, nice and tight despite that old guy's giant cock.

"Why don't you see what you can do for Opal, Dick. I think she needs relaxing."

Dick looked up, questioning.

"No, no dick yet, Dick. Just the warm-up."

Richard went right for the finishing line. He curled one hand toward his chest, spreading her lips with his thumb and forefinger to expose the head of her clitoris, then he started stroking. His timing was off, too fast for Opal, and his touch too firm, so at first she had no trouble ignoring what he was doing.

She kept her eyes on the ceiling and busied her mind listing ingredients for all the recipes she knew by heart, comparing them to what she had on hand in her apartment. Then she shopped for a dinner party, walking an imaginary market, collecting ingredients. She'd almost made it to the canned goods aisle when Sainte pitched in, bringing her body to reluctant life with one barely-there fingertip.

Unlike Richard, the asshole knew exactly what he was doing, circling gently but not touching her nipple. She was doing okay not thinking about her pussy until Sainte leaned down to tease her other breast, lapping her nipple slowly, just once, before he blew softly across the tip.

Opal's skin came alive. A flush rose to color her pale cheeks as the tingling flowed like living water up across her chest and down across her belly to where Richard, unfortunately, had stumbled onto a more effective technique.

Sucking and licking her clit, he fucked her with two long fingers, which shouldn't have been that much of an improvement, but... apparently doing more than one thing at a time confused him, and he slowed. Combined with a twisting motion of the fingers which bumped her G-spot on every outward stroke, it was too much for Opal.

From an eyelash away, Sainte couldn't fail to see her waver, and he leapt without hesitation. "Right there, Dick. Whatever you're doing right now, keep doing exactly the same thing."

Soon she was squirming to escape the rising waves of pleasure, her mental aversion unable to overcome her body's natural response.

Sainte kept up his attentions on her uninjured breast, rubbing her nipple with his thumb just like Rand had, just like Opal preferred, but lifted his upper body off the table, leaning over and clamping down on her left thigh, pressing outward and holding her still for Richard's increasingly successful petting. "You like that, don't you, honey?"

Opal closed her eyes, but Sainte wouldn't even give her that relief.

"Open your eyes. I want to see you when you come."

Her lids lifted obediently, and Sainte's gaze returned from roaming her body, boring into her eyes to suss out every corner of her soul, reading her fear, desperation, and desire as easily as if she were narrating her downfall.

She didn't stop struggling- Sainte reveled in her panicked expression- but soon the stimulation overwhelmed her meager resistance. Her brow wrinkled and her lips parted.

"Yeah, baby, just like that. Come for me, honey." The roughly growled command should have been a turn-off, like the rest of this experience, but her traitorous body complied. Her hands grasped the edge of the table overhead and Opal arced. Out of control now, she screwed her eyes shut and came, moaning and thrusting her hips into Richard's mouth to prolong the sensation. When Sainte kissed her, she responded without thought.

As her contractions slowed, Richard's petting did too, and Opal came back to earth, jerking her mouth from Sainte's with a broken cry. "No!"

She was still shaking when Sainte told Richard to release her. "Whyn't you go get yourself a sandwich, Dick? Take a bathroom break while you're at it." He ignored Richard's aggrieved expression and motioned over his shoulder for one of his men to keep an eye on Dick. "Me and Opal will be just fine here by ourselves, won't we, honey?"

With a savage smile and one final, sharp pinch to her nipple, he rounded the table to take Dick's place between her legs.

-- o --

Two stories down, the boiler room's heavy steel door closed with an ominous thud, and Tim whirled, his fist rocketing toward Rand's face.

Rand wasn't caught napping- Tim had been shooting daggers at him for the past twenty minutes, ever since he and Opal had returned to the group. He recoiled swiftly, drawing his head away, and the wild roundhouse whistled harmlessly past his nose. The momentum of his swing threw Tim just a tad off balance, and Rand responded with a linebacker's shove, herding his assailant up against the cinder-block wall. Since Sandir's response was the same move executed at the exact same time, Tim was well and truly pinned. He had the advantage of youthful energy and speed, but Sandir and Rand had the experience of men, and the solidly packed muscle to match.

Tim sputtered and hissed like a cat in a sack.

Rand said nothing. He wasn't even mad. The kid was obviously in love with Opal, and he'd just been forced to watch her have intercourse with another man in living color. Of course he was inclined to violence.

Sandir did all the talking while Tim contributed useful bits of accusatory profanity, interspersed with one insistent pronoun- "He... he... he..." all the while glaring at Rand.

"

He

," replied Sandir, "was doing the only thing he could do to keep Opal and himself alive. That man- Sainte- I have known men like him. He enjoys killing."

It was Sandir's fifth or sixth repetition of the same information, and Tim had begun to calm down. "But he-"

"NO." Sandir snapped, losing his patience and speaking to Tim as a father, not a friend. "He did the best he could under impossible circumstances. You are behaving like a child because your friend found pleasure with him. Would you have preferred her to be in pain? Or dead? Beaten and violated by Sainte himself?"

Tim turned his head to Sandir while he spoke, the first time he'd taken his eyes from Rand, but had no answer for Sandir's questions.

"Stop being an infant," Sandir finished with a snarl, "or I will let this man take care of you himself."

With a final shove, Sandir pushed himself away from Tim, who'd stopped fighting a long time ago.

Rand withdrew his weight and hands more slowly, taking two steps back as Tim shrugged him off, watching cautiously as the younger man busied himself straightening his clothes.

Sandir changed the subject. "Now, we must decide how best to escape."

-- o --

As Richard walked away and Sainte took his place, Opal lay crying quietly on the conference room table. Coming for these men was far, far more humiliating than orgasming in front of a crowd while Rand fucked her. At least she liked Rand, and she thought he cared for her, too, in some small, severely limited way.

Richard actively hated her, and Sainte was a sociopath at best. How could she let them make her come? She wiped her cheeks, sniffling, her feet hanging off the table. When Sainte arrived on her side of the table, he spread her knees, though he didn't sit in the chair Richard had vacated. He just stood, staring down at the wet pink folds laid open before him.

"Yes, you are." He murmured, as though talking to himself. "You are quite the little slut."

Sainte ran one rough finger from her vagina straight up her slit to the tiny nub at the top. He swiped across it, ran his finger back down and plunged into her pussy. Then he leaned over and watched her face while he finger-fucked her.

He'd been in prison for less than a year before engineering his escape, and he'd never been much for relationships anyway, but he'd definitely missed this. Not the sex, which he found uninteresting on its own, but the games. It was virtually the only thing he missed about marriage- Heather was stupid, but she never failed to respond to his attacks. Some women broke after only a few minutes of force, laying limp and passive while he did whatever he pleased, only coming to life at the last moment, when his hands closed around their throats or the tip of the blade slid between their ribs. But Heather never gave up, begging, pleading, and crying while her husband played with his wires and knives.

This was even better.

Opal didn't fight as he would have chosen, but watching her struggle against an orgasm was truly enchanting. Who knew nymphos were so much fun?

Like right now- she was keeping her eyes open as he'd insisted, and every step of her impending climax was plain to see in those striking gold-brown irises, as large and limpid as a forest fawn's. Equally as evident was her determination not to yield to the tempting tug of his big, rough finger against her swollen tissues.

She'd started out with her jaw and fists clenched, and now her lips were parted and her pelvis curled subtly to meet his every thrust. Her body's surrender was only moments away, but she was determined to resist.

Opal whimpered as he rotated his hand, exploring the damp and sensitive depths of her pussy.

How could he do this to her? Why would he do this to her?

Her step-father would never in a million years derive pleasure from giving it; only causing pain could satisfy his sick desires. But Sainte watched her face as ardently as a lover. He probed her with that one big finger, doing it exactly right, and he thrived on her rising arousal. He added a second finger, and her hands rose over her head again, grasping for a hold.

Helpless to defend herself and unable to rein in her body's libidinous demands, Opal began to weep. For the first time her tears were caused by emotion, rather than the physical abuse she'd been suffering. Opal's childhood had been traumatic, but her step-father hadn't shared. She'd been with only a handful of men since then, and she was a very private person. Lying spread open like this for him to touch and examine at will was nearly as bad as the rape itself, an unbearable violation of her self.

Of course, Opal knew otherwise when it came to what a person could endure. By the age of ten, she'd learned almost anything was bearable when you had no choice. She'd decided way back then that living was better than the alternative and consoled herself with the dream of one day being freed from her abuser. Clinging to the same thought now, she managed not to lower her lids.