#aldishodge fanfic

[tvchi]

Echoes of Intrigue: Prt 2

Villan

Lola

Melpomene mask

Disclaimers: DO NOT COPY OR REPOST MY WORK.

DO NOT TRAIN AI WITH MY WORK.

Warnings: Mature Audiences ONLY: SMUT, 18+, Minors DNI- Kidnapping, Bondage, Sensory deprivation, Fingering (F), Spanking, Gagging, Anal probing, Use of sex toys, Profanity.

Pairing: black male x black female

Word Count: 5706

A/N: So I'm fairly new to writing fan fiction and new to writing short stories. I began writing poetry and spoken word, then tried my hand at prose. I've been reading a lot of @megamindsecretlair 's stories as well as @thecapodomme 's story and I thought I'd try my hand. I have posted another short story that wasn't really fan fiction on my page before called The Challenge. I didnt cast it or anything this elaborate, but yea. I'm trying to get better at writing more stories and prompts really help. Casting my stories after writing them actually helps to keep me motivated so I thought this was a good marriage of the two forms. This story currently consists of two parts, this is the second. If this part gets positive feedback, then I'll force myself to develop the story even further and write the third and fourth part. Your feedback is greatly appreciated because I'm really trying to get better. So Like, Comment, and Reblog if the spirit moves you. ❤️❤️🥰

Tags: @thecapodomme @writers-of-tmblr @melaninpov @spaceslutsworld @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @mymusicbias @the-black-label @master-builder42 @miraculously-dumb-bitch @megamindsecretlair @hopefulromantic1 @tranquilfandomer @thadelightfulone @vivalaorgasm

PART 2

My body stiffens as I listen to her last words. Then I head back out of the room and into the surveillance office I set up. I peer at her through the computer screen as I sit on the leather swivel chair. I had always thought that this part would be easy. 

Following her after work and memorizing her routine had been tough. She was not the easiest to monitor as she often switched her routine and routes home. Waiting for the perfect time to take her was difficult because she always had people around her. This was not the first time this happened to her. That had been the thrilling part in the beginning. One day, I was tailing her from her favorite hangout spot with her girlfriends on Thursday nights. She looked breathtaking. Her doe eyes had the perfect golden-brown hue with inner corners that tipped downward, starting a trail to her perfect button nose. Her full lips were naturally outlined in a warm brown hue. Her skin was radiant and glowing as the sunset. Her hair was full and bouncy, riding just past her shoulders. Her body. Her body was the thing men go to war or jail over. I’ve seen pictures and video clips of her before. They were always after she was caught and released. She would look disheveled, tired, and angry, then sad. She never looked the way I saw her that day. 

When I originally signed up for this, it was the adrenaline rush of possibly getting caught by the police that got me. They were familiar with her and her case. Who doesn’t love the possibility of real danger? Forbidden fruit? The thrill, the race, the fear in someone’s eyes, hurried breaths, the racing of heartbeats. But the feeling I feel today is entirely different, and I am unsure where to place it. It’s not remorse, it’s not trepidation, no. It was more like… sympathy?  Rage? Disgust? Again, I wasn’t sure. Today, she is deflated. She has given up fighting and as she bleeds out for hours on end every day, getting weaker and weaker, she seems resigned to die. She jokes, but she acts like this may be her last time talking to someone. They assured me that she would be a fighter. But the more and more I discovered about the people who set this all up, the more doubts I had. The more I started delaying the process. The more I found myself feeling something for her.  My thoughts were interrupted by the phone buzzing in my pocket. If I didn’t call my girlfriend’s phone around the usual times, things would look suspicious and the key to this is to maintain routine. I scroll to her number on the screen and tap. It rings five times before going to voicemail. I wait a couple of minutes, then try her again. The same thing, it rings and then goes to voicemail. Just when I am about to try her for a third time, I get another call from a blocked number. I answer on the third ring.

“Hello,” I answer.

“Have you secured the asset yet?” a voice says.

“Yes, but we have a problem. She’s on her menstrual cycle and appears very weak. This isn’t what I paid for,” I reply.

“You paid for an experience. Each man pays for the hunt of an asset, secured lodging, and the option to hold the asset for four weeks barring any injuries or emergencies. As the asset is currently in your possession, our part of the contract has been fulfilled,” the voice retorts. 

“Yes, but I’m stuck taking care of her period instead of all the things that I had planned. That should be an emergency,” I say, trying not to raise my voice.

“If you are unsatisfied with your experience, you could release the asset and leave a complaint for management,” the voice says dryly. 

“Thank you,” I manage as I hang up the phone.

I walk into the back of a soon-to-be corner office of this construction site. I needed to pace and move. Something about this situation does not feel right and I need an exit strategy. They are watching me. That much I knew. I couldn’t help but think about how I wound up in this space. Therapy did not help and it wasn’t for lack of trying. I had bulldozed through thirty-five therapists varying in specialties from addiction to oppositional defiant disorder to all eight of the paraphilic disorders. All the exercises and techniques worked for a while until they stopped working. They finally decided that they had misdiagnosed me and I was addicted to thrill-seeking stemming from childhood trauma blah blah blah. I didn’t fear death but I knew I also didn’t care deeply for living. I was curious to see how others lived. I wanted to behave like other ordinary people navigated the world, but I had this constant itch. An itch to push the boundaries of the civilized societies, the limitations of my body, the expectations of what I think I’m capable of. I wanted to be fully present for all of it, which was the reason I never fully dove into drugs. It just seemed like after a while the drugs fed off of you rather than the other way around. So, I delved into sex, self-harm, weapons, crime, and all the cliche things daredevils try in their 20s and early 30s until they are expected to settle down and have a family. Even when I was in the throes of the women, the guns and knives, or even drag racing and boosting cars, none of that was ever enough. I needed more. I craved more. 

I received a black envelope at the end of last year at work. It was placed on my desk, and my name was typed in white ink on the front. On the back was a crest in white wax. It wasn’t a crest I’d never seen before. I even got one of my tech friends to scour the internet to see what entity the crest belonged to, but their search came up empty. It took me a few days to open the envelope. When I finally did, there was an invitation typed on parchment. I didn’t know that you could type on parchment. The two worlds didn’t belong together yet; they were mashed together to deliver a message I wasn’t sure I wanted to receive. 

“Dear Prospect, we would like to cordially invite you to our black-tie informational session on December 20th at 7:37 pm. We have been watching you and have it on good authority that you would be interested in our services. Given your record, we ensure we can curate the ultimate experience for your thrill-seeking pleasure. The address to the information session is noted down below. We look forward to meeting and partnering with you in this new endeavor. 

                                                Sincerely, TRG.”

I glanced at the address below, about four blocks from my office. I didn’t know who TRG was or were but I was curious. Usually, when people offer a thrilling experience, it is usually something I’ve already done years ago that regular people would usually piss themselves over. It took a lot to move me. Even the sex I was having with my casual friend was getting stale. It was taking me longer and longer to get off in the orgies I attended every other weekend. Lately, I’ve just been making a game out of how quickly I could make someone cum rather than getting pleased. Masochism was cool but I no longer came as hard as I used to. My usual drag spot had been crawling with cops, so I haven’t been in any races for weeks. While my hopes weren’t exceptionally high for this event, I was hoping that it would relieve some of the tension I was feeling before I had to hurt myself again. The words “We’ve been watching you” replayed in my mind on a loop. Why? How? What did they want from me to be watching me? Questions riddled my mind. I guess I’d get those when I went to the party. 

At eight pm a couple of days later, I had been almost entirely dressed in hopes of finding my new outlet. I saw and donned my favorite cufflinks, went to the island inside the walk-in closet where my fragrances were housed, and splashed myself with my signature scent. After one last glance in the mirror, I had to admit, I looked good. I had always known I did pretty well for myself in the looks department but I outdid myself with this custom jacquard suit. I reminded myself to thank my old man for teaching me how to pick and wear the hell out of a suit when I got the chance. I guess all those high society functions paid off every once in a while. I made my way over to the garage of the building and hopped on my motorcycle. Revving the engine to life, I took off and headed to the address I scoped out the day before. 

Once at the destination, I handed my keys to the valet, hoping one of them knew how to ride, they gave me a ticket, and I handed the greeter my invitation. She scanned it and passed me over to the l’ hôtesse who then handed me a mask and escorted me to my table. From what I could tell, there was a mix of men and women at my table. On the place cards were professions instead of names. I guess discretion was highly regarded at this organization. I tried to see if there were recognizable features on anyone I brushed past, but I didn’t think I knew anyone here. Suddenly, the room got dark, and three spotlights illuminated the stage. A man ascended from the stage floor and looked around before approaching the transparent podium. His mask was more elaborate than the rest of ours. It concealed the entire top half of his face and was beaded into an elaborate tribal symbol. He stood silently for a few seconds before he addressed us. 

“Good evening. I am very excited to see all of you tonight. You all look very elegant,'' a scrambled voice said. 

These people did not want to be known. To go as far as to conceal their voice suggested that maybe I was in for a treat after all. Maybe I will finally get the trill I’ve been searching for. 

“You all have long awaited this night and I’m sure you all have many questions. Let me start by saying that I am Grandmaster William St Clair of the Lodge Order of Scotts. In the order, we have a long history dating back to the seventeen hundreds and have been involved in regulating world order. We are a very clandestine organization and usually do not make ourselves known. However, as times change, so do our approaches to the free world and its market. All of you are the first to witness a Grandmaster make a public speech outside of order gatherings. Each of you has a unique piece to play in our newest venture. Before I reveal what you have so many questions about, I need you to turn over your placeholders and follow the simple instructions,” he stated.

I turned my placeholder over and a QR code was stamped just beyond the middle fold. I looked up and saw everyone around the table scanning their codes, so I followed suit. When I scanned my code, a website popped up with my name, age, and home address. They had indeed been watching me. Below my address was a silver ‘Enter’ button that was pulsating. I clicked it. There was a list of six questions. I looked around again and it seemed the entire room was immersed in what they were doing. They are probably trying to figure out what combination of answers would get them to the next step. The Grandmaster had long vacated the stage. Instead, I saw what appeared to be a woman wearing an onyx Melpomene mask, a body-hugging black gown with a long black cape draping her shoulders, and she held a scepter in her left hand.  She scanned the room with scrutinizing eyes. Her gaze finally landed on me. We stared at each other for a moment. I broke my gaze, retreating to my phone, and attempted to answer some questions. 

“Question #1: Do you think that the police force is here to protect and serve, or do you think they are here for another purpose entirely?” I wasn’t sure what to make of this question, so I skipped to the second one.

“Question #2: How would you deal with an intruder? A: Call the police. B: Attempt to subdue them on your own. C: Get to the highest point of your house, watch them take what they want, and leave. D: Escape and get to safety.” This one was a bit easier so I marked my answer. 

“Question #3: If you were caught in an object at sea and you knew you were going to drown, would you die fighting to get free, or would you allow the water to consume you?” I looked around once more. No one had put their phone down yet to ask what was the meaning of all this or if they were planning to kill us. I looked up at the stage and the Melpomene mask was gone.

The fourth question read, “When in bondage, whether it be physical or mental attempts to limit the ability to focus, how do you center your thinking? Only answer using a maximum of seven words.” 

The last two questions were like the abstract reasoning questions you tend to see when people are trying to test your aptitude. I started looking at the first question from the beginning again and scanned the second and third. By the time I got back down to the fourth question, I had decided that I was a grown man who graduated higher education almost five years ago, and if I wanted to be tested, I would rather have a conversation with our elderly receptionist, who is growing more senile by the day. I switched off my phone and headed for the door. I handed my ticket to the valet and tossed my mask. While waiting, I noticed a tall, slender figure appear to my right. She leaned against the outer wall of the building as she lit her cigarette. She took a long draw, inhaled, and a stream of smoke parted the dark air. She flipped her long dark hair to her left side. Hearing an engine pulling up, I broke my gaze and turned to the direction of the sound, hoping it was my bike. 

“Leaving so soon,” I heard. 

“This isn’t my scene, but it was entertaining,” I replied.

“Well, that’s odd. I thought everyone here loved a good thrill,” she said.

“Thrills, yes. Multiple choice tests, however, are not my idea of fun,” I said.

“So…what is your idea of fun,” she said as she approached me. 

The valet handed me my keys and I walked to my bike. 

“Hop on and I'll show you,” I grinned. 

She flashed a mischievous smile and said, “If I wanted a quick fuck, there’s a bathroom ten paces to the left of the entrance. I am more interested in why you left and what it would’ve taken to make you stay.”

Curiosity had my feet trapped in the spot it occupied. Why was she so interested in me staying at this party? What was her angle? Did she work for those weirdos? After a while, I offered my last thoughts before going home. 

“Listen, I’m not sure if you work for them, but offering people an exhilarating experience shouldn’t be so complicated. You either have the goods or you don’t. Eventually, everything you’ve planned there gets stale anyway. I’ve tried everything and I doubt whatever they’re offering warrants me sitting through an aptitude test,” I offered as I stepped one foot over my bike and settled. 

“How about I make you a deal? If I show you what’s under my skirt, you have to promise to take it for a test drive,” she offered. If you want to see, follow me.” She walked around to the driver’s side of the vehicle, which, I only then noticed, was parked directly behind me. She hopped in and drove off. 

“Fuck it,” I thought and I sped off behind her. 

We had been on the roads for a while. We finally arrived at a lofty gate in the middle of the woods. Once inside the gates, we drove to the base of a small summit and began heading up the windy roads. We drove into a hidden garage in the middle of the rock, cut the engines off, walked to a matte black elevator door, and punched in a code. Without saying a word, she stepped into the elevator. I trailed behind her. The grandeur of high ceilings immediately captivated me, enhancing the sense of space and airiness. Every corner whispered understated splendor, with matte black fixtures lending an air of mystery and intrigue. The walls, painted in rich, deep hues, provided a dramatic backdrop for the magical view hidden on the steep mountain's other side. Dark hardwood floors stretch beneath your feet, adding warmth and depth to the space. We walked past the living area, which housed plush velvet sofas in shades of charcoal and midnight black that invited you to sink into them. A sleek, minimalist coffee table rested at the center, its polished surface reflecting the soft glow of flickering candlelight. Against one wall stood a towering bookcase, its shelves lined with leather-bound tomes and antique curiosities. Gothic-inspired sculptures and art pieces commanded attention, their intricate details captivating the eye. A vintage gramophone sat nestled among the display, casting a nostalgic aura over the room. 

We stepped into a long corridor that led to several rooms. We stopped at the fourth room with a large matte black door. It was the only door painted matte black of all the doors along the corridor. She entered a code, the doorknob inverted, and the door shifted upwards, revealing deep crimson curtains hanging from the windows at the other end of the room. Moonlight filtered in,  giving a soft, moody glow. Velvet upholstery in shades of ebony and sapphire draped the furniture. A meticulously crafted desk stood dominating the space in one corner of the room. Its dark wood surface was adorned with antique inkwells and quills, adding a touch of old-world charm. A high-backed leather chair stood behind it and above the desk, an elaborate computer system commanding attention. The sleek monitors were framed by intricately carved Gothic arches, seamlessly blending modern technology with timeless designs. The keyboard and mouse were accented with metallic finishes. A built-in bookcase centered itself on the back wall. Its shelves were filled with leather-bound volumes and antique artifacts. Soft lighting illuminated the collection. She sank into the chair and started clicking away on the keys. I stood around admiring the vastness of the room. 

“Take a look at what’s under my skirt,” she said with a sultry smile.

It was the first time she had spoken since we got here. I walked around the desk and took a look at the screen. At first, I didn’t understand what I was watching. After a few seconds, I saw a man tying a woman up. She seemed to be yelling for help. Pleas that should've been audible to the surrounding neighbors. He threw her over his shoulder and started walking into a warehouse, but not before standing completely within my sight, smiling and winking into the camera. Was this real? Did he know we were watching? 

“What is this a movie or something?” I asked.

“Oh, quite the opposite. This is a live conquest,” she replied.

“Conquest?” I replied, confused.

“If you stuck around a little longer and completed the quiz, you would’ve been brought back to a secluded room in the building,” she said as she started unzipping her gown, “...it would’ve been explained to you that thrill seekers desire two things. Fear and rush. The real fear of getting caught and the rush you get when you get your hands on the forbidden. It is very simple. If you’re in, you get the opportunity to play an adult version of catch and release. You may even taste your catch if he or she agrees,” she finished.

“What? You mean these are real kidnappings orchestrated by you? Bullshit! How do you get past the cops? How do you get the girls to agree?” I questioned in disbelief.

“It’s quite simple. We own and operate many pleasure and tea houses in the district. Everyone gets a survey of the type of play they are into. We pool those results and filter those with the type of fantasy that aligns with yours. Being kidnapped seems to be very popular these days. Then we categorize those who want to hunt and those who want to be hunted. We gather further intel on the people in each group and give each pair a window of time to conduct their play. Everyone takes a course on ropes, zip ties, chains, belts, how to approach and apprehend your prey, what to avoid, etc. We also have an optional course on accessory devices to assist with capture. Once your time window is up, the “hunted” must be released. No names are exchanged and the face of the hunter is not revealed,” she finished, now in a satin dress that stopped in the middle of her sculpted thighs. 

“It can’t be that simple. So, you mean within a certain window of time, someone can be taken like a real kidnapping and then after they’re released, they don’t go to the cops? How would they know the difference between a real threat and this … arrangement?” I asked, my mind flooded with additional questions that my mouth was trying to keep up with.

“Yes,” she laughed, “it sounds like you are interested.”

“If you can assure me that I would walk out of this with a kidnapping charge, then I’ll be down for a good time,” I blurted. 

Should I have demanded that the rest of my questions be answered? Yes. Should I have asked even more questions? Yes. But, was this the most enticing game of manhunt I had ever encountered? Also, yes. 

“I’ll put you on the list then,” she said with a satisfied smug look. “Oh, but first, you must show me how well you can apprehend your target. She walked over and tapped what was a hidden drawer within the wall. I walked over to the drawer and an assortment of ropes, chains, ties, belts, and toys lay inside. 

“You’re serious? Right now?” I asked.

“Well, you missed the chance to perform a demonstration on the dummies we had at the back of the party. So, this will have to do. That is unless…... You don’t have anything to show me,” she said slowly as her eyes pierced into mine daringly. 

“Oh, I have a couple of things I can show you,” I boasted as I chose my materials. 

I took the ball gag out of the drawer. The undertone of doubt was laced in every sentence when she spoke to me. I didn’t like that, so now, she doesn’t get to talk. There were better uses for saliva. Far better uses for her soft lips. With the rest of my tools in one hand, I took her hand and led her back to the desk. I knocked all the desktops, monitors, laptops, and tablets off the table. 

“Lie down,” I commanded. 

She laid down with her back on the table, hands at her side and feet slightly spread. I blindfolded and gagged her. I didn’t mind her eyes, their soft almond shape, and the onyx of her irises. But they held such scrutiny and challenge. Almost like she was daring you to step out of line. I didn’t like too much defiance when I played, so they had to go. I went to the seat where I had dumped the ropes. I grabbed them and tied her hands to each leg of the desk with a figure-eight knot.

“Try to get yourself loose if you think you can. I’m very interested in what you think of my Boy Scout skills,” I teased.

She wiggled and pulled at the ropes on both ends until she was satisfied. She stopped when she discovered she couldn’t be freed until I let her loose. I walked back over to the hidden drawer and tapped it. There were other tools that would aid me in my demonstration, so I chose a couple more. I was going to test her reserve. I approached the table again, lowering myself to her left ear.

  “There are a couple of things that are going to happen here. The first was going to be me relieving you of your panties, but I can tell you are wearing any. I love a woman who’s prepared. Since you handled that, the first will now be the ground rules. You are not allowed to cum until I tell you to. The second is that there are consequences for disobedience. They get more severe the more you fail to follow directions. For your safety, I’ll give you this double-sided magnet. When you are ready to tap out, tap the magnet on the table. I’ll stop. If you understand, nod your head,” I instructed. 

She nodded slowly. 

“Good,” I replied. Third, even though you were meant to test me, this is still your experience, and I have to ask you a couple of questions. Can I touch you?” I started.

She nodded.

“Can I lick you?”

She nodded.

“Can I bite you?”

She nodded. 

“Good,” I whispered. 

I took the Velcro wrap and one of the vibrators I found in the draw and turned it on. I lifted her dress, exposing her mound, which revealed the finest landing strip I’ve seen thus far. I traced it with my free hand and circled her clit with my middle finger. I slid my fingers slowly down her flower and she moaned as her body shuttered. I secured the Velcro strap to her left inner thigh, attaching the vibrator to the strap and placing it right on her center.

“Mmmmm!” she moaned loudly. I guessed she liked that.

“Remember, you’re not allowed to cum until I tell you to, or else,” I reminded her, watching her squirm in place.

“mmMMMM” she moaned as she tossed her head from one side to the next.

I grabbed a pair of headphones and inserted them into my cell phone. I placed them in her ears and began to play “Pro” by Devon Culture. I always started with “Pro” as a source of encouragement. No one wants to play a game they know they can’t win. At least, no one that’s sane. I walked to her right side, bent down, and began to lick and kiss her neck. I retrieved the nipple clamps I placed in my left back pocket after my first trip to the drawer. I moved further south, leaving a trail of kisses from her neck down to her chest. I popped her right breast in my mouth, making sure to apply just enough pressure to her nipple with my teeth then soothing it with soft laps of my tongue. Her loud moans interrupted my focus as I heard the faint sounds of “The Mood” by Arin Ray ft D Smoke. I placed the first nipple clamp on the right breast as I turned my attention to her left side, my strong side. As gave her left breast the attention it needed, I increased the intensity of the vibrator.

“MMmMMMMM!!!” she yelped as she wriggled furiously. 

I looked at her and smirked knowingly. She was coming undone. She disobeyed my orders, and I knew I would enjoy what would happen next. I placed the left nipple clamp on and walked around to the other end of the table. I lifted her leg, bending it at the knees. She had indeed started to cream over the vibrator. I returned to the drawer and grabbed the paddle I had seen earlier. Walking back over to my prey, I removed the right headphone.

“I told you there would be consequences if you disobeyed me, didn’t I? I expected you to hold on a little longer since this was a test you requested. I must say, I’m a tad disappointed,” I started.

“Mmmmmmm,” she moaned in what I assumed was a protest. 

I headed over back to where her legs were wriggling and I lifted them over my right shoulder as I proceeded to spank her with the paddle in my left hand. 

“Five lashes for the first offense,” I said, and then I gave her the remaining three.

 They were slow, swift, yet hard. Her breathing paused, then quickened in anticipation of the next one. When she received her five, I gently placed her legs back on the table. I walked over to the desk chair where I had placed the internal vibrator. 

“OK, we are going to try this again. You can’t cum until I tell you to. Is that understood?” I asked.

She nodded vigorously. 

“I’m glad. Do you remember what to do if you want me to stop?” I asked.

I heard a loud tap of the magnet on the table. 

“Very good,” I said.

I reached over to replace the dislodged headphone in the corresponding ear. Upon hearing “W.E.T.” by Paloma Ford, I decided it was time to up the ante. I repositioned the now-soaked vibrator where it had been before, but only this time, I spread her swollen lips apart with my fingers and massaged her kitten until I felt her dew. I entered her slowly with my fingers one by one until three of them were exploring her depths. I took the internal vibrator with my free hand and inserted it into her. I licked my fingers clean and began to turn vibrator number two to the first setting. She would most certainly let me in after I was done with her. 

After setting number two had been pressed, I watched her squirm. A second ago she was the most confident, intimidating person someone could come across. Now she would probably do anything I say. I couldn’t help but wonder how high I could tell her to jump. I went from setting two to number three. An audible buzz was coming from in between her legs. She started bucking and fighting her restraints.

“MMMMMMMMM,” she shrilled. 

I smirked wider. She’s mine. I walked over to her right ear again. Dislodging the headphone in that ear I said, “Not yet,” as she moaned uncontrollably. I could now hear “Disgusting” by Sy Ari Da Kid playing. I watched as her stomach contracted, and then I whispered, “Now” as I turned vibrator one to the highest setting and vibrator number two to the fourth setting. I lubed up a silicone anal probe in just enough time to catch her orgasm and make her scream.

The sound she made could break all the glasses in the room. She came. Hard. And I had a front-row seat to the most incredible show. I slowly removed the vibrators one by one, her pussy still humming and pulsating. I walked over and removed both headphones, then I untied her hands. I left her blindfold on while I cleaned her up.

“Mmmmmm”, she cried. 

I removed her gag, and, finally, her blindfold. 

“Am I in?” I asked.

“Fuck me!” she said.

“I’ll take that as a ‘Yes’,” I chuckled. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of construction boots walking in from the other end of the floor. I scan the monitors and notice that it is now 5:30 am. The next security shift is coming in, and I have lost track of time. I haven’t given her a sedative or gagged her and we need to move. I turned off all of the monitors and changed my shoes. I replaced my face mask with a black surgical one, gathered all the cell phones on the table, and walked swiftly to the other side of the floor and down the stairs. I’m losing my shit over this girl. Weeks of planning could go down the drain instantly, but I would be a liar if I said I didn’t feel alive. The blood pumping and my heart beating through my chest had not been what I used to lose sleep chasing after. That was until I found…I couldn't think about this now. I have to get her out undetected before someone does a perimeter check. I ran to her. I used my box cutter in my pocket to cut the zip ties on her wrists.

“What is happening? Where are you taking me?” she asked frantically.

“Hey, I found something to free your hands with. It’s not the sharpest but it may help,” I heard from behind me.

“Fuck!” I thought.

P/C: If you would like to be tagged in any of my stories, please feel free to let me know in the comments and I'll be happy to add you. I hoped y'all enjoyed this installment. If you haven’t, check out Part 1 below.

Part 1

[tvchi]

Echoes of Intrigue: Prt 1

Villan

Lola

Disclaimers: DO NOT COPY OR REPOST MY WORK.

DO NOT TRAIN AI WITH MY WORK.

Warnings: Mature Audiences ONLY: 18+, Minors DNI- Kidnapping and Bondage.

Pairing: black male x black female

Word Count: 1942

A/N: So I'm fairly new to writing fan fiction and new to writing short stories. I began writing poetry and spoken word, then tried my hand at prose. I've been reading a lot of @megamindsecretlair 's stories as well as @thecapodomme 's story and I thought I'd try my hand. I have posted another short story that wasn't really fan fiction on my page before called The Challenge. I didnt cast it or anything this elaborate, but yea. I'm trying to get better at writing more stories and prompts really help. Casting my stories after writing them actually helps to keep me motivated so I thought this was a good marriage of the two forms. This story currently consists of two parts. I will lay the first part out and then link the second part (when I figure out how to do that lol). If these parts get positive feedback, then I'll force myself to develop the story even further and write the third. Your feedback is greatly appreciated because I'm really trying to get better. So Like, Comment, and Reblog if the spirit moves you. ❤️❤️🥰

Tags: @thecapodomme @writers-of-tmblr @melaninpov @spaceslutsworld @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @mymusicbias @the-black-label @master-builder42 @miraculously-dumb-bitch @megamindsecretlair @hopefulromantic1 @tranquilfandomer @thadelightfulone @vivalaorgasm

PART 1

The sounds of footsteps are heard in the distance. They are all too familiar. The cadence of his strides haunts my dreams. Always four evenly paced steps before a slight halt. It’s almost as if he’s deciding, studying, …. calculating. He absorbs me. Maybe that’s how he can take me time and time again. He knows how I squirm, how I walk, how I do my hair, and the next time I’ll need tampons. At least, that’s what happened this time. I went to Kroger to get tampons, while walking back to my car everything went dark. 

Waking up here would make this the fourth time I have been dragged here in thirteen months. I’m not sure what’s worse, the fact that I keep getting taken or that I haven't made any strides to stop this from happening. The hard, steel chair that I’ve gotten to know these past couple of months comforts me a bit. It’s about the only thing that hasn’t changed. Every time, there's a different warehouse, dungeon, storage site, or wherever this is. The lights are always dimmed but there’s always a change in hue from the little I can see through the blindfold. The smells are different, sometimes reeking of mildew and sweat. Other times, it smelled of must and concrete. This time it smelled of wood and dust. Every time I would wake up to this familiar cold chair, I rubbed the spot where I scratched lines into the legs with my nails, and that’s when I knew I hadn't been making this up. 

He steps closer to me. Barely touching me, he lays something down at my feet.  Maintaining minimal contact is a good way to avoid a scuffle and getting his skin under my nails. It’s also a good way to prevent me from noticing a scent or any identifiable body markings, but I have the smell of a bloodhound. Something is different. Something has changed. He doesn’t smell of the usual skin and sweat but of something recognizable. Something that I’ve smelled many times before but can’t quite place.  

    “Why me? Why are you always doing this to me? Have I done something to you,” I say hoarsely. 

I tried my best to keep my voice even. This was an attempt at a conversation, not a cry for mercy or an admonishment. He said nothing. He never speaks. 

 “I just want to know why you keep taking me and then letting me go. Wouldn’t it be easier just to kill me?” I ask, measuring my breaths in between words. Calm. Even. 

He remains silent. That was irritating to me. The least he could do was reveal a sinister plot or threaten to kill me. He wields his power mercilessly, offering me nothing to hang on to not even the next minutes. There is nothing to look forward to but darkness. I can’t plan my prayers or meals or thoughts. I never know when I’ll go; whether this time will be the last. 

The heavy thud of his footsteps suggests that he wears construction or heavy hiking boots. He walks beyond me, hopefully, to retrieve some water or food now that I’m awake. Our last couple of encounters have convinced me that he can’t cook worth a damn. Each time even worse than the last. I never look forward to his sardine surprises, and sometimes, he mixes them with canned beans or cream corn. I imagine that he’ll stay away from the beans this time, being that he had to empty two buckets worth of shit last time. I didn’t feel bad or embarrassed either. Fuck ‘im. That's what you get for kidnapping a girl with a sensitive stomach. I’d kill for a sardine sandwich right about now, though. 

It fell silent for a while. 

That means this room is large or leads to other rooms. The problem is, I never can find a way out. I’ve only been freed because he had let me go. Once, some homeless men found me in an old sewage system. Another time, I was in a forest preserve forty-two miles from home and I hiker alerted the police. Yet another time, I was found by a janitor in the basement of a city mall that was getting renovated. This last time, I woke up chained to a different chair in the expressway facing oncoming traffic. That made the news. No one knew how I got there. No one saw anything. The street cameras were as useless as the people the police interviewed. Each time he frees me it gets more elaborate. This time, I don’t struggle or exhaust myself trying to imagine an escape. No. This time, I should start looking for patterns and motives. Who would do this to me? Who hates me so much to have me kidnapped once a month? I don’t make many enemies as a data analyst. I’ve worked on some high-profile cases recently, but no one gives credit to the data analyst who tracks the numbers and bank accounts of the bad guys. All the credit goes to the men in black or the blue windbreakers. He never asks for any information from me. This can’t be from work. 

“Not again,” I think as my heart quickens its pace. 

I feel him before I hear him. He walks back towards me. This time another sound accompanies him, a light yet sharp resonance. It is chow time. He sits the food down in front of me and removes the blindfold. It’s dark, with just a stream of light peeking through, reminiscent of those through a pinhole camera, to illuminate the cold plate in front of me. As I glance over my plate, his gaze brooding over me at a distance, I wonder how he could even see in the dark. He could go one living in the shadows, feasting on girls shopping at Kroger, dragging his spoils back to his layer. 

My inner thoughts are running wild at this point.

“Ok, focus on what you know, Lola,” I think. 

I don’t personally know any creeps who would keep doing this to me. I stopped dating entirely after the first time this happened. After the second time, I was scared to leave my house, so I had a therapist and a psychoanalyst come to my house three times a week to walk me through what happened and get me acclimated to going outside again. They claimed I wasn’t a true agoraphobe, I just had severe PTSD. The third time it happened, a bunch of shitty kids heard about my story and decided to go on social media and talk about how I was probably staging my kidnappings. The videos went viral. The police started coming by less and less and brushing off my case. I was no longer a priority but a possible psych case. I started thinking that maybe I was going crazy and perhaps I was staging these kidnappings, blacking out, and forgetting my elaborate plans for attention. I was enrolled in group therapy and started focusing on healing. After that, I started going out with the new friends I met in group therapy. I even managed to bump into the most thoughtful man on earth. 

“Shit, is Max looking for me? Has he called me? Did he go by the house?” my thoughts spiraling. 

“You should know that I’m on my period and I need to change my feminine products. Folks don’t think about that when they are kidnapping women. At least, I don’t think they do. You never really see it in the movies. No action movie that I have ever seen had a girl kidnapped in the thick of her menstrual cycle. You should call Paramount about that and show ‘em how it’s done. Representation and all that. Justice for the vaginas. Hashtag: me too, my period is not taboo!” I rambled. 

I do that when I’m nervous. I do that when there’s nothing else to do. Maybe it’s because I fear silence. I wonder if the last thing I’ll hear is nothing at all. I take another teaspoon of spam and throw it into my mouth, attempting to swallow it instead of chewing. I feel around for the glass of water he always puts beside the beef, being careful not to knock it over. Once I find it, I chug it down. It would be the last bit of water I’ll have until it’s time to eat again. He walks back to me and takes away the tray with the water and the plate of barely-eaten Spam. I try to look around as much as possible before he places the blindfold back over my eyes. I feel around for any loose object on the ground with my feet, hoping to find something that I could use to get me out of the zip ties he will place back around my wrists. I try to wiggle my way out of the ties around my ankles in a last-ditch effort. I give it the good old college try for tradition’s sake and then give up as his footsteps return. I wonder if he just saw all of that. I wonder if he was looking right at me.

He is back right in front of me now, and there is a pause for a moment, almost as if he is deciding on something. A moment later, he places the blindfold back over my eyes and lifts me out of the chair in one swift motion. We are closer now. And there it is again—Musk, sweat, and …sandalwood. I hold onto that as we walk about twenty paces and then turn a corner. Within five more paces, we come to a door. He opens it and sits me on what feels like a toilet. The lights are dimmed and he places a thin, square object in my left hand and a couple of thinner, tubular objects in my right hand. Wait, are these…are these feminine products? Had he granted a request? That was a …first. 

“I’m going to need to see or else there'll be blood everywhere. I would hate for that to happen, especially given what happened last time. We don’t have the greatest track record with bodily fluids,” I jest.  

There was a pause. A hare longer than the one before I was carried over here. He was contemplating again. The door slammed in my face when the blindfold was finally lifted, and the surrounding light dimmed significantly. I could tell that he was directly behind the door. He was probably watching, who knows, but I peed and changed. I feel clean and dry for the first time since waking up to this darkness. I am grateful. I also thought about what I could use to get out of those zip ties he’d place me back in once he noticed I was finished. I’ll shove the other two tampons in my boots for now. I’ll figure out what to do with these later. I knocked on the door to signal that I was done. He opens the door and carries me back to the chair. Once at the chair, he places my hands behind my back and zip-ties them. He ties the blindfold lightly over my eyes and places what appears to be extra water by my side before walking out of the vicinity. 

“Being extra nice to me, Sandalwood,” I taunt. “Must be the period thing.”

PART 2