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[Houdini & Tainted] Stockholm Syndrome.

T

TaintedLove

Super-Earth
Joined
Aug 12, 2009
The night fell swiftly, filled with cold wind and heavy rain. The streets were empty, nothing but an occasional silhouette with a dog running down the lane or a car's lights flashing in the distance. In a quiet neighbourhood such as that one nothing out of ordinary was to be expected. Lights went out early, certain due to a lightning striking the generator, others due to the stereotypical perfection of the families residing in the fairly large, dollhouse like houses in the area.

One person, however, was far from sleeping. The taxi pulled up to one of the matching houses, a female stepping out of it to run into one of the empty buildings. Home felt foreign at that point to the young woman, after having spent twenty four hours at the police station. Desiree D'Aether was a witness and it shook her up thoroughly. The city's crime rates were rather low, and she was not aware of the gang activity that took place lately. Thus, she felt no danger in walking home on a bright evening.

She was a hooker, and danger was not a foreign concept to her. Of course, she evolved beyond the streets, growing into a qualified call girl - there to please rich men not only in bed but also as a psychologist, a person who could play out their wildest dreams and fantasies which oftentimes involved bruises for her. She couldn't complain though - after all, the house was bought to her by a client and ten grant a night was not something to be taken for granted.

Her youth and beauty brought her everything, yet they couldn't shield her from that night's events. She was walking down one of the mentioned streets when she heard a groan. Turning her head, she found herself facing a number of people injuring a male. She wanted to intrude, desperately so, yet she did not want to end up just like him. By the time the police has gotten there, the male let out his last breath and she was trembling against a metal fence.

The following hours were a blur to her. Policemen tried to get her to build portraits of the gang members, pressured her to give them details she did not know or remember and completely dismissed the fact that they picked her up at midnight, and she was absolutely dead after her shift. When they finally set her free, after a medical examination and a good cup of coffee, she was barely able to walk.

Exhaustion, both physical and emotional caught up to her. Meanwhile, she knew that she would not be able to sleep peacefully. Slowly, she entered the house, shutting the door behind, locking every lock. The silence was dreadful, it made her want to scream. She was afraid, afraid that they would come for her, afraid that they would kill her. They have killed so many that she would be nothing but a minor nuisance, annoying as a fly.

''Fuck,'' she whispered softly, her deep melodious voice rather hoarse. Kicking off her shoes, she walked up to the kitchen, setting a glass of milk into the microwave, too lazy to wait for it to finish. She then went upstairs, where her room and the shower were. It felt horrible to be in a large house, every shadow a potential threat. For once, she wished she could be in a tiny apartment like the ones she used to live in as a child.

Now, she had nobody. At twenty five years old, she was a complete orphan and other than having a few friends, she had no boyfriend or family to speak of. Horror flashed through her face as she thought of her situation. She thought back to the state of her account. Her client list was worth quite a lot, she could quit anytime and keep a very considerable fortune. She nodded to herself, resolute to start college, to find herself a boyfriend and do something about the life she was leading, no matter how much she enjoyed it. At least get a dog. A guard one, would be best.

Pulling her clothes off, she walked into the bathroom, studying herself in the mirror. Even though she was tired, the woman was beautiful. Her body was small, standing at five feet and five, her frame slender. However, her breasts were a natural D, her rear round and firm. Her waistline was very small and stomach flat, holding a light curve from the exercises at the level of the abs. Her side was tattooed with a series of Thai writings and odd designs intertwining to ride up her shoulder and circle it. It was the only tattoo she bore - it was sexy against her tanned smooth skin, all men she met thought so.

Her hair, long shaggy waves of chestnut, fell down to her waistline, rich and thick, occasionally landing into the pair of large emerald tinted eyes that conserved a certain puerile innocence while holding a predatory glow of a seductress. Her features were delicate, her lips plump and light pink, her teeth a blinding white - something that cost her a fortune yet was worth every cent of it.
Sighing, she stepped into the shower, trying to get the imaginary dirt to disappear. Soon enough, she was clean, her hair dry and her body wrapped in a light silk robe. Walking downstairs, she emptied a glass of milk before returning to her bedroom. She slept in a simple white tank top with thick straps and a pair of matching panties clinging tightly to her curves.

Taking a seat on her bed, she looked around, afraid that she would never wake up. Nodding to herself, she slid under the covers, enjoying their warmth. The milk spread through her body, relaxing every tired muscle and soon enough Desiree was deeply asleep, unaware of the night's following events.
 
Carlo was a man who honest, law abiding types might describe as a street tough. He wouldn't characterize himself that way, however. He liked to think of himself as a worldly, sophisticated, intelligent guy who was on his way up in the world. It was just that the world he wanted to ascend in wasn't the same one that most would consider the good and virtuous path. As a teenager, he was taken by the nefarious characters who attached themselves to the powerful organized crime syndicate which exerted much influence under the surface in certain parts of the city.

Its members were so confident, so strong. They always seemed to have a pretty girl on each arm, and wads of money to toss around. That was the life, it seemed to Carlo. So, from a young age, he did what he could to befriend them, to gain their trust. Now, at twenty six years of age, he found himself smack in the middle of their circle of trust. He wasn't an important man within the organization, but he felt important when outsiders recognized who he associated with and feared him. He had sufficient money on hand to live a nice life, in a nice apartment, with nice clothes. He slept late most of the time, stayed up late, and went out and partied when he didn't have work. The only catch was that he had to do anything his employers asked of him. And that meant anything.

So, on this particular night, he found himself on assignment in the middle of the night. He was attired nicely, in black dress pants, nice shoes, and a designer button up shirt, along with an imported belt. The shirt almost covered his neck tattoo, but the very top of the large cross with an intricate design around it protruded above the collar. His very dark hair was neatly slicked back like usual, and he walked with an air of confidence, although he carried some anxiety inside him, when reflecting on the task at hand.

The subject was a known call-girl of twenty-five years. She'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time the night before. One of Carlo's superiors was supposed to lead a hit against a repeat offender who'd intruded in their turf yet again, despite previous warnings. It was supposed to take place in a dark, abandoned side street, but one Desiree D'Aether had stumbled upon the happenings. The wheels of street justice moved fast, and Carlo had received the order to 'take care of her’ less than an hour after she was identified by someone on the inside, a police officer who secretly hid a mountain of gambling debts.

So now, bathed in the moonlight, he was driving the mile and a half through the empty streets from his apartment to the subject's house. When he got there, he parked two blocks away and stole up to her back door, where he easily picked the lock and quietly slipped inside. He felt at the back of his pants, where his weapon was hidden, and padded up to her open bedroom door. There, he paused in the doorway, his shadow creeping up on the bed, and held his breath as he watched the pretty young woman's chest heave up and down slowly under the sheets. The main things he noticed was that her lips were plump and full, and her skin was nice and unblemished, the top of her chest visible as it and the white straps of her tank up protruded from under the sheets. She was so pretty and peaceful that he decided to leave her sleep for a while. Returning to the kitchen, he pulled up a chair in the dark, helped himself to a glass of juice from her fridge, and sat down in the shadows, waiting for her to stir.
 
Desiree's sleep was rather peaceful, until it began. The sounds of rain in the background, the occasional lightning breaking against her eyelids and the images before her eyes, flashbacks of the previous night. Only this time, she was not the one calling the police any longer. She was at his place, simply because she found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Running, as long as she could, as fast as she could, she soon ended up in a house. It didn't take her long to realize that she was in her own house, a place that used to be the one sanctuary she had turning into her deathbed. Ironic, really.

She crawled under the cover in her nightmare, when a shadow came, pointing the cold metal object against her forehead before the trigger was pulled. The sound of a shot mixing with a thunder outside, she gasped, her eyes darting open. Sweat had formed on her temples, cold as the rest of her body was. Slowly sitting up, she didn't notice the man in the shadows for several moments. Instead, she tried to calm herself, to tell her that now that she told the police what she knew they would not come after her.

Deciding that she needed to get drunk, she turned her head only to let out a soft gasp. Shivers ran down her spine as she realized that the dream was not far from reality, that she most likely had a few hours left to live if the man found her to her taste, a few moments otherwise. ''I'm guessing you're the Reaper,'' she said meekly, a bitter smile crawling onto her lips. She was too tired to be attempting to scream or fight. She knew how useless it was. Nobody would hear her, nothing could possibly save her. ''Could you make it quick and painless?'' She wondered, biting on her lower lip, trying to prevent the tears that kept on crawling to her face.
 
The girl's reaction was not what Carlo expected. Perhaps she was shell-shocked, jaded, or whatever term might be used for showing a lack of emotion in the face of almost certain death. In any case, he'd drawn his weapon at the first sign of Desiree, and now held it out, trained between her temples.

"Sit down," he ordered her. "Back in your bed," he went on to explain. "I'll be the one to give the orders," he chided her, stalking ever closer to her in an ominous manner. "Do you know why I'm here?" he challenged her, flashing a bright white smile, a friendliness that belied his sinister motive in being inside her home.
 
The girl watched the gun pointed at her, aware that her brains would be all over the wall if he was to make the slightest movement with his finger. It was frightening and horrible, how easily a human's life could be stolen. She crawled back against the bed's head, her eyes never leaving him. It took all of her will not to break down crying or not to look at the gun.

His words unnerved her, he unnerved her, the situation unnerved her. ''Well considering the fact that I asked you to make it quick, you could assume that I do know,'' she replied, frowning. He was like a cat playing with his prey, it displeased her. ''What orders?'' She then questioned, her gentle voice trembling slightly.
 
Carlo knew full well that Desiree wasn't naive. But he would have taken pleasure in making her admit that he was going to off her, making her predict her own demise. It turned out, however, that despite her reputed profession, she was apparently a woman of more dignity that that. Even of more dignity than to beg for her life. "You told me to make it quick," he shot back. "Where I come from, that's an order. And the person with the gun gives the orders, as far as I know," he continued in explanation. "So I'll decide if it's quick or slow, painless, or..... not."

He cocked the gun fully next, and lifted the safely, effecting an eerie clicking sound. But the louder bang never came next. Carlo wasn't afraid to pull the trigger, but something intrigued him about this woman. Something even beyond the superficial; beyond the smooth skin and soft breasts. "Come up here, out of the sheets," he ordered her, motioning to the side with his gun. "Stand up so I can see you." He took a step back to make sure she didn't try anything desperate with the gun, and then snickered. "Now that's what I'm referring to when I talk about an order," he taunted.
 
Desiree listened to his words, almost rolling her eyes. If she wasn't so afraid, she most likely would have done so. Instead, she hid behind a mask, the way she always did. She hid behind the mask of desire, of longing and pleasure when really she felt like an empty shell when these horrible, dirty men pretended to be the best thing she has ever had. ''I'm sorry if I made it seem so, I simply assumed that I had the right to a last request,'' she replied cautiously, a soft sigh escaping her plump lips. In her mind, the situation wasn't even real yet. Hearing the lift, she stared at the gun, waiting for the blinding pain or the horrible sound she has heard earlier on.

Instead, there was a silence disrupted by nothing but the sound of the rain hitting the windows. She chuckled bitterly to his taunt, pushing the covers off of her slender body. She then stood up, the white panties and tight tank top barely covering anything, looking almost ghastly in contrast to her lightly tanned skin and the darkness of the room. ''Do you like what you see?'' She wondered, biting on her lower lip, her gaze trailing over the man slowly.
 
If Carlo had doubted whether Desiree was a 'woman of the night' before, that was cleared up for him now. There was no doubt she was a woman of some class, despite her profession, but the way she remained calm and confident, or at least appeared so outwardly, spoke to years of experience with men. "You don't have such a right," he brashly countered her. "This isn't the state jail," he went on. "You get shit. Not a last request, not a last meal." Despite his harsh words, he slowly returned his weapon to the waist of his pants, the only sound in the room now being that of the heavy, pounding rain.

As she stood up, the would-be executioner furrowed his brow and studied Desiree's form. He could see every curve of her body as the top wrapped it tightly, only the necessary parts covered by her white panties. He did like what he saw, and didn't see any reason to hide it. She wasn't a woman who'd be made to feel uncomfortable by such talk, that was certain. She was a stunning woman. "But I do like what I see," he admitted, nodding his head up and down her body emphatically. "So how much does it usually cost?" he asked with a leer and a roll of his tongue along his lower lip.
 
Desiree offered him a meek smile, the most she could manage. She didn't answer the first comment, since she knew that whatever she said she would end up making him angry and it would cost her her life. Meanwhile, the gun's return to his belt gave her a slim light of hope. A part of her was about to chuckle as she thought what form her last meal could potentially take. Of course there was nothing even remotely funny about the situation, she was simply in a state where her emotions swung back and forth. His question made her think, the woman shrugging slowly. ''It depends,'' she replied slowly, her voice not sounding cocky in the least. In her opinion, she was merely a salesperson, who worked hard to get where she was. It was something she did well and deserved to be paid for it.

''Ten to twetny,'' she murmured after a few moments, obviously speaking in thousands. That was the biggest advantage of being a call girl - she was incredibly well paid, simply because she played the role of both a psychologist and a woman. She shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, for once unaware of what to say to a man. Was this where she was going to beg for mercy, or was she supposed to attempt seduction? Brushing her hair out of her eyes with a sigh, she raised her eyes, her gaze meeting his one. ''You know...My death really wouldn't change much,'' she commented, taking a slight step closer to him. ''I can leave the town, the country,'' she continued, yet as she was about to say something else, she stopped, waiting for him to answer. A part of her felt stupid - it was futile, she knew it.
 
Carlo analyzed the mysterious call girl as she contemplated her price. Maybe she was oozing fear inside, but she didn't do anything to show it to him. She was amazingly cold and confident, still. He wondered what made her price vary so much. The amount of time desired in her company? The level of kink involved in the sex? The looks of the john? And he wondered besides who could pay that much. Carlo had never hired a prostitute before. He prided himself on not needing to, and so far, he'd never gone wanting. Perhaps politicians tired of their icy wives frequented her bed. Maybe kinky lawyers or executives who put on a straight-laced facade by day.

"Your death would change a lot," he contradicted her. "If you leave town, you could always change your mind," he speculated. "Besides, if my bosses found out you were alive, I'd... go away for sure," he added. "You think I want that to happen? That makes a difference for me," he insisted a little angrily. He looked into her eyes and tried to decipher what she was getting at, but he couldn't. This woman was used to putting on a front, and he simply couldn't see through it. "So if I take twenty thousand worth of...... services," he said delicately, do you think that's worth it to me?" He frowned and shifted his weight back and forth, watching as his long shadow played on the bedsheets. "Do you possibly think it's worth risking my own neck just to get some ass I could normally never afford?"
 
Desiree studied him, noticing that he suddenly became more cooperative. No more shouting orders, merely contemplating and even delicacy in his choice of words. It made her curious, he seemed to be different from other gang member she has ever gotten to encounter. It was 'back in the day', when she was working for at most five hundred dollars a night, on the street. Even then, however, the only person she knew who belong to a gang was her 'pimp'. Then, she managed to get out of there and became a call girl for an elite agency. She never looked back and avoided areas of organized crime as though it was plague.

His words regarding the twenty thousand worth of services formed a plan in her head. Hopefully he would buy it. She approached him slowly, her hips swaying in an inviting manner. Her feline, almost predatory gaze paused upon his face, a faint grin drawing itself on her features. ''It could be,'' she replied, without bothering to elaborate on her worth. Her voice was subtly, gradually growing lower and huskier, turning into the tone she used with her clients. Her hand slowly slid up, resting on his chest. ''Maybe you could at least reconsider the last wish, then?'' She wondered, raising her head slightly, since she was considerably smaller than he was, looking like a doll next to the man. ''Make my last hours enjoyable? My clients are really not that good looking,'' she added suggestively.
 
In the back of his head, Carlo knew that the girl was trying to play him. She was trying to exploit his vanity, by suggesting that most of her clients weren't at his level of desirability. Although he knew what was going on, Carlo was a sucker for adoration. Being approached by such a sultry, inviting woman was his biggest weakness, and for that, perhaps his boss should have been blamed for not giving this particular job to someone who had a little more control in that area.

"Interesting proposition," he growled a little playfully, starting to rock back and forth slightly himself as he considered it. "Twenty thousand in services... for giving you a last request," he repeated. "Well, I'm a man of business. Now you're speaking my language," he commended her, rubbing at his chin. "I'll always listen to a reasonable offer." He glanced down at her hand as it rested on his chest, and then looked up into her eyes, which were still a good deal lower than his own. He extended his hands and slid them onto her hips, and then slowly began working her white top upward, revealing some of her smooth stomach, his expression breaking into a very slight smile. "You do realize," he began in a last warning, "that if you try anything, the last thing you'll remember on this earth will be trying to pull a table leg out of your ass."
 
Desiree smiled, noticing the light playfullness in his voice. She couldn't have asked for more at that point - she expected him to get angry, perhaps even hurt her. Instead, he seemed to be willing to give her one last chance. Her hand slid to his side, another one following it, carefully stroking the fairly sensitive areas located there. She tried to maintain his gaze, as much as it killed her to do so. It made her work twice as hard to hide all emotion and replace it with lust. It wasn't that hard once he touched her - her mind went fairly blank as it always did during a job, jolts of electricity traveling down her spine.

His hands were pleasant, and paired with the incredible adrenaline rush that came with the situation she felt her lower body tingle. ''There won't be a need for that, I'll be a good girl,'' she murmured with a cat-like grin, stepping closer to him, her small body almost pressed up against his stronger and bigger one - her chest ample enough to press against the upper part of his stomach. She meanwhile raised her head, tilting it slightly, her warm breath breaking against his lips. However, she didn't do a thing, assuming that he wanted to control the show.
 
Carlo relaxed a little when Desiree promised to be a good girl. Of course, there was no basis to trust her, but the way she said it was simply so disarming. It made him feel like there was nothing whatsoever to worry about, and he had to force himself to remember not to let his guard down completely. When the girl looked up at him, Carlo froze for a moment. He was used to taking the lead, but this was a professional. She knew what she was doing. Was a man supposed to cede to her expertise in this situation? He took the initiative eventually, and leaned down, pressing his lips against hers for a moment and tasting her warm breath before pulling away a tiny bit.

"So what does twenty large usually get a guy?" he asked teasingly. "Hopefully whatever he wants," Carlo added in response to his own question. He kept his hands at work under her top, and gently grasped at her bare hips under the garment, using them as a starting point to slide his hands up her sides as he smiled at her.
 
Desiree noticed his muscles relaxed, which caused her to do so as well. The situation seemed almost unreal - they were acting as though they were merely a couple, or a simple one night stand, when in truth he was a wolf and her a lonely sheep. She softly returned the kiss, slipping in a certain amount of innocence although she was clearly experienced. Briefly brushing her lips against his ones with every word she spoke, she grinned. ''Forget the numbers, you get whatever you want,'' she replied, curious about the reason he kept on insisting on the price.

One of her hands slid along his neck, applying light motion in circular movements on a sensitive spot on his neck located right above a bundle of nerves. The other meanwhile finished working on his shirt, stroking his chest, enjoying the sensation of his skin underneath her fingertips. ''What is it that you want?'' She wondered, deliering him another slow, sensual kiss, her tongue brushing past her lips to caress his ones without actually entering his mouth.
 
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