KRISTIN COULDN’T STOP shivering. She was naked and alone, locked in some funky little beach house where she’d been held captive all night.
She was not afraid. She refused to be afraid. This was another one of Mister X’s sick sex games, and now that it was light outside, she was confident he would soon come back to release her.
Last night she’d met him at the end of the Santa Monica Pier, as arranged. As usual he was dressed as a chauffeur—all in black with a baseball cap pulled down low over his forehead, and oblique wraparound shades hiding his eyes.
“Where are we going?” she asked, as he gripped her arm and led her back to his car—a limo.
“You’ll know when we get there,” he said.
Mister X was a man of mystery, and for her sins she was getting used to his odd ways.
Kristin had climbed into the back of the limo, thinking that however bad her life was, at least she was luckier than her sister, Cherie, who was lying in a coma in a private nursing home because she’d chosen the wrong guy to get engaged to. Howie Powers—a no-good playboy with too much of his daddy’s money.
“Put on the blindfold,” Mister X commanded.
She’d done as he asked, covering her eyes with the soft velvet mask that was lying on the backseat. As she did it, she told herself, I’m a paid whore, I deserve everything I get.
Mister X had then driven along the Pacific Coast Highway at great speed for about twenty minutes, turning off at what felt like a bumpy dirt road. When the car had finally come to a halt he’d thrown open the rear door and almost dragged her out.
She could hear the roar of the sea and smell the cold night air, and for a moment she’d felt fear. “Can I take off the blindfold?”
“No,” he replied, roughly gripping her arm and proceeding to take her on a trip down perilous steps to what she assumed was a house. Several times she nearly fell, but he yanked her up. Finally they entered the house, which smelled musty and damp. He led her to a bed, pushed her onto it and said, “Strip.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
This was her worst experience with him yet. The man was a true pervert—getting his kicks from frightening people.
“First I want my money,” she said, berating herself for not asking earlier.
“Spoken like a true whore,” he said, shoving an envelope stuffed with cash at her. She felt the stack of bills with her hands and was instantly reassured. This much money would pay her sister’s nursing home bills for months.
“Strip,” he repeated in a flat monotone. “Slowly.”
She stood up and did as he asked. Hating him. Hating herself.
Standing there naked, she felt vulnerable and exposed. This man who had asked her to do a variety of perverted deeds had never once touched her sexually. Was he finally going to make love to her?
Suddenly she heard the door slam, followed by the click of a heavy lock. Next she heard wild laughter from outside. Then silence.
She waited a few minutes before ripping off the blindfold. The room was pitch black—she couldn’t see a thing, there was no light coming in at all.
It was then she realized she was totally alone.
She didn’t panic. This was only another way Mister X had of getting his sick kicks.
After a while she began groping around for her clothes, only to discover the perverted freak had taken them.
She edged her way slowly around the small room, feeling ahead of her with her hands. First she tried the door; it was firmly locked. Next to it was a window, which on examination appeared to be boarded up. No getting out of there until he chose to come back, so she settled on the narrow bed, covered herself with the one thin sheet and attempted to sleep.
Now it was morning, light was creeping through the small gaps in the sturdy boards covering the window, and soon Mister X would be back to release her.
No matter how much money he offered in the future, this encounter was definitely the final one. She would never do business with him again.