Free Abduction by Varian Krylov Page B
Authors: Varian Krylov
woman his own interest flagged. Even after fame brought hordes of horny groupies back stage in search of him, he'd always steered clear of the ones who seemed too young, too high, too drunk. All his life he'd been wary of hurting anyone.
And now it seemed that hurting her was all he thought about.
It had to be the thing that had happened to him. And the way he had found her there in his house. That he knew—almost for sure—that she'd come after him like those others had.
That, and her strangeness. Her quiet vulnerability, with something else lurking there.
At least those things were part of it. What it really was, though, the thing that stoked his cruel passion from those quiet embers of resentment and curiosity, was their isolation there at the cabin. Only his subconscious had grasped that there, deep in the woods at his secret hideaway, he was free of the laws and mores of society. That there, miles and miles from anyone, she was at his mercy. And it was this feeling power, felt but not consciously acknowledged, that fueled an endless stream of fantasies that aroused and disgusted him.
70
Seeing her before him, small, frightened, he would imagine what it would be like to simply take her. Not in the sense of the romance novel—the bodice-ripper. When he thought of taking her, he thought of taking her from herself and making her his--a thing for his use. There, away from the world he was in danger of forgetting that she belonged to herself.
He imagined going to her where she sat, on the floor in the radiant heat of the fire, her legs bent beneath her, her head resting on her palm, her elbow resting on the hearth. Striding to her. Standing over her. And, as she looked up, her face an innocent question, kneeling down by her and, without a word, without even thinking to set aside the novel in her hand, pushing her back, onto the floor. He did not think she would really say no, or cry. But he liked to imagine it. Her mouth shaping the no. Her head swiveling left and right on her neck in slow motion. Her face cold and gray and streaked with tears of no. He would not be rough. Taking off her clothes would be like peeling a thick-skinned fruit to be eaten. Simple. Necessary. Mundane. Calmly stripping off each piece of clothing—his sweats, his boxers. Pushing her legs apart, pushing in, pumping, slow or fast, to the end. Maybe she would be silent. Maybe he would forget that she was there, that there was more to it than his cock and how it felt. If he held her close and tight as he fucked her it would be similar to that convulsive, involuntary close tightness of his fist around his prick. That was one.
Another one. As they walked past one another in the living room, maybe just by the back of the sofa he would stop. Stop her. Make her look at him. Make her see, in looking at him, what he was thinking. Then slowly, deliberately, he would turn her toward the fireplace, pin her against the back of the couch, close an arm across her 71
waist. She would not fight. Holding her in place that way he would tug her sweats down, pull out his hard cock, press it to one hole or the other, thrust in, and fuck her until he came.
These were just ephemera. Phantoms which barely glanced the surface of his consciousness.
The fantasies were more elaborate. More concrete. And more damning. Even now his damned conscious mind was projecting a reel of these sinister images.
His mistrust fed his fantasy. He imagined going out, into the woods.
She watches as he puts on his shoes, opens the door, closes it behind him. She moves to the window, watching him cross the clearing before he disappears behind the shadowy screen of trees. Seizing her opportunity, the one she has been nervously awaiting, she scurries to his room. He has closed the door, but there is no lock, and she is undeterred by his silent request for privacy. She throws the door open and charges in, anxious to complete her mission before his return.
She is not like the others,
And now it seemed that hurting her was all he thought about.
It had to be the thing that had happened to him. And the way he had found her there in his house. That he knew—almost for sure—that she'd come after him like those others had.
That, and her strangeness. Her quiet vulnerability, with something else lurking there.
At least those things were part of it. What it really was, though, the thing that stoked his cruel passion from those quiet embers of resentment and curiosity, was their isolation there at the cabin. Only his subconscious had grasped that there, deep in the woods at his secret hideaway, he was free of the laws and mores of society. That there, miles and miles from anyone, she was at his mercy. And it was this feeling power, felt but not consciously acknowledged, that fueled an endless stream of fantasies that aroused and disgusted him.
70
Seeing her before him, small, frightened, he would imagine what it would be like to simply take her. Not in the sense of the romance novel—the bodice-ripper. When he thought of taking her, he thought of taking her from herself and making her his--a thing for his use. There, away from the world he was in danger of forgetting that she belonged to herself.
He imagined going to her where she sat, on the floor in the radiant heat of the fire, her legs bent beneath her, her head resting on her palm, her elbow resting on the hearth. Striding to her. Standing over her. And, as she looked up, her face an innocent question, kneeling down by her and, without a word, without even thinking to set aside the novel in her hand, pushing her back, onto the floor. He did not think she would really say no, or cry. But he liked to imagine it. Her mouth shaping the no. Her head swiveling left and right on her neck in slow motion. Her face cold and gray and streaked with tears of no. He would not be rough. Taking off her clothes would be like peeling a thick-skinned fruit to be eaten. Simple. Necessary. Mundane. Calmly stripping off each piece of clothing—his sweats, his boxers. Pushing her legs apart, pushing in, pumping, slow or fast, to the end. Maybe she would be silent. Maybe he would forget that she was there, that there was more to it than his cock and how it felt. If he held her close and tight as he fucked her it would be similar to that convulsive, involuntary close tightness of his fist around his prick. That was one.
Another one. As they walked past one another in the living room, maybe just by the back of the sofa he would stop. Stop her. Make her look at him. Make her see, in looking at him, what he was thinking. Then slowly, deliberately, he would turn her toward the fireplace, pin her against the back of the couch, close an arm across her 71
waist. She would not fight. Holding her in place that way he would tug her sweats down, pull out his hard cock, press it to one hole or the other, thrust in, and fuck her until he came.
These were just ephemera. Phantoms which barely glanced the surface of his consciousness.
The fantasies were more elaborate. More concrete. And more damning. Even now his damned conscious mind was projecting a reel of these sinister images.
His mistrust fed his fantasy. He imagined going out, into the woods.
She watches as he puts on his shoes, opens the door, closes it behind him. She moves to the window, watching him cross the clearing before he disappears behind the shadowy screen of trees. Seizing her opportunity, the one she has been nervously awaiting, she scurries to his room. He has closed the door, but there is no lock, and she is undeterred by his silent request for privacy. She throws the door open and charges in, anxious to complete her mission before his return.
She is not like the others,