Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

His right hand lifts from the steering wheel and stretches toward me across the console between us. He moves slowly and I have time to bat his hand away, or duck out of his reach, or even open the car door and escape.

I don't, though. He fits his hand around my throat. His thumb and middle finger press into the pulse points just below my jaw.

"Are you afraid?" His tone is curious rather than concerned.

I can still breathe, mostly, though my head is getting light and my heart is pounding. "Yes," I manage to whisper.

"Good," he says. "But I think we can do even better."

Wait, what? What does that mean?

He lets go of my throat and, like a flash, grabs my dick and squeezes it through the fabric of my jeans. He squeezes hard and the zipper bites into my flesh, since I'm not wearing any underwear. I arch up into his hand, though the seatbelt keeps me from lifting my hips too much.

"Fear turns you on, I see. What else turns you on, boy?"

He's squeezing and kneading my dick and I'm so hot my brain is melting in my skull. I'm not wearing my cage, and I'm honestly worried that I'll come in my jeans before he does anything else to me.

But of course, he doesn't let that happen. He lets go of my dick and grabs my chin roughly. He jerks my head around to face him.

"I asked you a question, boy, and when I ask you questions, you answer them. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I say.

"Yes, what?" His fingers are digging into my jaw. I wonder if I'll have bruises there later.

"Yes…um, sir? I don't know what to call you, mister."

"Hmm, that's a fair point." He cocks his head and thinks for a minute. "You already have a Daddy and you said he's kind and gentle. Is that what you were expecting when you got into my car? Kindness? Gentleness?"

I swallow, which isn't easy with the way he's gripping my jaw. "N-no, sir."

"Then yeah, let's stick with Sir. That works."

"Y-yes, Sir."

He lets go of my jaw with a little shove and my head knocks against the headrest. Then he turns the car off and pulls the keys from the ignition.

"Wait, aren't we…?"

"Quiet," he snaps. "When I want you to know what I plan to do to you, I'll tell you." He opens his car door, sticks one leg out, and turns to glare at me over his shoulder. "If you run, it better be on this road. Because I'll chase you down with the car, but I'm too old to be running around in this heat."

"You're not old, Sir." Is flattery the way to go here? Will he treat me better if I play nice?

He blows an impatient breath out. "I'm old enough to know how to handle a boy like you."

He exits the car without waiting for me to say anything else.

I look out the front windshield, where the sun has now set, and the twilight is making the trees and utility poles along the side of the road loom over the car menacingly. Should I run? There haven't been any other cars on this road so far, but there could be. Who's to say they'd see me and stop for me, though, instead of accidentally running me over?

The man—Sir, I guess—goes to the trunk of the car, lifts the lid, and then comes around to my door while I'm dithering about whether to run. And now it's too late, because he has a length of rope in his hands.

He jerks the door open, and barks at me. "Hands."

I turn on my seat to face him and hold my hands out in front of me, pressed together from wrists to elbows. It takes him only a minute to tie my wrists together—expertly, like a man who's had a lot of practice—with a doubled end of rope wrapped around them twice. He crosses one set of ends over the other and drapes it between my hands, over the wraps around my wrists, then brings it between my arms under the wraps and up. He makes a loop with the trailing ends of the other set, passes the lengths he just pulled from between my arms through the loop, between my hands again, under the top set of wraps, and through the loop a second time.

He tightens down the knot he's just made. I wiggle my fingers to see if I can, after all that. I try pulling my wrists apart. The rope is stiff and firm. My fingers move easily, and I bet he can keep me tied up like this for a long time without constricting the blood flow or causing any nerve damage.

I wonder how long he's planning to keep me tied up.

"You took that like a pro," he says. "You like being tied up, don't you, boy?"

I do. I'm not sure I should admit that to him. But he can see how much I like it anyway. And I've already told him that I'm afraid and he's already noticed that my dick is still hard from his manhandling. Or maybe from watching him tie my wrists. Or both. I've been hard long enough that I'm kind of losing track here.

"I'm quite sure your Daddy has taught you better manners than you've been displaying so far, boy."

I look down at my bound wrists rather than meeting his eyes. "I like it when my Daddy ties me up, Sir." I'm usually naked when he does, and I feel naked right now, with this man staring down at me in my cropped shirt and cut-off jeans, the twisted and fucked-up things that get me hot on display to him.

He grabs the knot at my wrists and yanks me out of the car. I'm not expecting this and I can't quite get my footing. He pivots on his heel without letting go of my wrists and I stumble trying to stay upright while following him to the rear of the car.

The trunk lid is still open and when I see what's inside, my heart stutters and my stomach drops. Oh my god.

The trunk is empty of all the things you'd expect to find in one. There are no jumper cables or half-full bottles of antifreeze or snow and ice scrapers or tools. The rough carpet covering the trunk floor appears to have been vacuumed recently and there's a pillow on one side of the trunk and a neatly folded blanket on the other.

He doesn't mean…

He wouldn't.

He can't be expecting me to…

"Get in."