Blind Date E-Book

April Morgan

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 469

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Cath meets a mysterious man online who appeals to her wildest fantasies. But she quickly realizes that she has encountered a ruthless psychopath who makes no secret of the beast lurking in his mind. Will she manage to escape the prison built for her? She drifts more and more into a dream world that threatens to completely devour her soon. But where is she to go when reality is too cruel? Please note the trigger warning! Abuse, violence, and sexual content are described explicitly! Mental illnesses also play a role in this story. All places, characters, and actions are fictional, yet I do not recommend the book if any of these topics make you uncomfortable. As a new author, I grow with each book and am still developing. Blind Date Series 1. Trapped Between Dream and Reality 2. Trapped Between Madness and Reality 3. Trapped Between Truth and Lies

Leseprobe

April Morgan

Blind Date

Trapped 1-3

1. Trapped between dream and reality

2. Trapped between madness and reality

3. Trapped between truth and lies

This book contains elements of psychological thriller, abduction, horror, and dark romance. Some parts are difficult to endure. For individuals who have experienced sexual violence, it may be distressing. The story is told from both perspectives, the victim and the perpetrator. I have tried to depict the shifting mental landscapes despite the significant time jumps, and I hope I have done so comprehensibly.

Trigger Warning!

This book explicitly describes sexual violence, abuse, and mistreatment. All places, characters, and events are fictional; however, I do not recommend this book if you are uncomfortable with any of these topics.

Thank you for daring to pick up my book.

If you want to get an idea of the characters, you can find them at the end. Enjoy reading.

Love, April

Blind Date

Trapped between dream and reality

Prolog

Sometimes I wonder if I have given up my desire for freedom. If I'm not fighting hard enough. But then I think about my life and all the prisons I have lived in. Maybe I was born to be a prisoner? Trapped in a bad childhood with drunken parents who neglected me. Trapped in the early years of standing on my own and barely making ends meet. Trapped in a loveless relationship where I was never good enough. Trapped in the thoughts that everything would change eventually. I believe that, one way or another, the next prison would have come, and who knows, maybe it would have been even worse than the current one. So I stop fighting and accept my fate. The thought of no longer having to fight finally calms me and lifts an enormous burden that I have carried with me all my life and that I no longer want to bear.

Today

Catherine

Nervously, I tug at my sleeve and look around, still seeing no one who matches Damon's description. So, I order another glass of red wine. It will calm my nerves and ensure that I don't slip away quietly before he arrives. I've been sitting here in the bar for half an hour now. My mind is running wild. It was a terrible idea to agree to a blind date. You're too old for this, he'll find you awful, maybe some lunatic will show up, whisper the cruel voices in my head. Although we've been writing to each other for quite some time, we haven't met in person yet. Well, we haven't been writing for that long, to be exact, for only four weeks. I normally don't care for online dating or arranged sex meetings. More or less, I've always made fun of others because it seems so desperate. But there's something about him, how he writes, how he brings my darkest fantasies to the surface, that makes me weak and utterly captivated. I can't put it into words, but just the thought of him makes my cheeks flush and my heart flutter. I should be past this age of swooning like a young girl, but through him, I'm discovering sides of myself that I never knew existed; he creates this feeling of wanting more. Besides, after the last few years, I deserve a little fun in my life. The fear of being stood up by him is steadily growing. Maybe he saw me sitting in this corner and deemed me not good enough. A feeling of disappointment spreads.

I glance at my phone; it reads 8:52 PM. As usual, I'm way too early and roll my eyes, annoyed with myself. Our date is set for 9:00 PM. Due to my nervousness at home, I've changed outfits five times and almost decided to cancel on him. To calm myself down, I decided to arrive at the bar earlier than agreed. Why I chose this particular bar, I can't quite explain anymore. Maybe because there's a subway station right in front of it, and I'm still not very familiar with the city. It's dark, crowded, and 80s music is playing, with a Depeche Mode song booming from the speakers. That could have been the reason for my choice, as I love songs from that era. The ambiance is rather rustic, with many neon signs on the walls, red stools, and small lounge benches. It's not exactly run-down, but it's clear that the bar has seen better days. At least the prices are good, and if everything goes as I imagine, we'll only be here for a short while.

The guests are younger than me. It feels a bit like a college party. Everyone seems to be in their mid-20s. Stylish young women who seem a bit out of place, very casual or sleazy guys hoping to take one of the drunk young girls home. By the way, the calming down didn't work; now I can only stare at my watch every minute and wonderfully escalate my excitement. Pro tip for next time: pick a better bar and don't arrive too early.

I glance into my small antique silver pocket mirror, which I recently picked up at a flea market; it has a beautiful floral design and, like this bar, has seen better days. Yet, I love it because I appreciate things with a history and the scars of time. I critically check my makeup once more: dark smoky eye makeup gives me a somewhat sultry look and beautifully highlights my light gray eyes. Light powder, but not as white as a porcelain doll, and dark red lipstick that completes my look. I wear my dark, shoulder-length, wavy hair down, cut into a kind of long bob that frames my face nicely. I also check my outfit again. A burgundy turtleneck sweater made of soft wool, reaching almost to my knees. Maybe not super sexy, but it's cold outside and functional since I traveled by subway. Paired with black hotpants, which are completely covered by my dress-like top. A slightly translucent dark pantyhose. Black Doc Martens and charcoal over-the-knee wool leg warmers. All in all, I am satisfied with my choice of makeup and outfit. My ex-boyfriend was often annoyed that I only wore dark clothes and didn't have much interest in fancy designer clothes, which he preferred for me. But fortunately, I no longer have to worry about that, as he is out of my life, and I can simply be myself again.

Lost in thought, I don't notice a man approaching. It's only when he's standing directly in front of my table that I look up and catch my breath. Even though I've never seen a photo of him, I instantly know who is standing before me. So far, I haven't dared to send him a picture of my face and didn't want one of him either. It's not because my face is terrible or that I lack self-confidence; the fear was just too great that I might back out at the last second and not go through with the date. Imagine giving so much of yourself away, only to cancel, and then bumping into each other somewhere on the street and recognizing each other. He would know who I am immediately, or I would blush because I recognized him. Better to maintain the anonymity of the internet; you have to take advantage of the purely digital era somehow. I look into his brown eyes, which lean heavily towards yellow. They almost blaze in the darkness; I've never seen such a color before. Can eyes really be yellow, I wonder, unable to answer the question; I'll have to research it further. I could lose myself in studying every color particle. Realizing that I'm just staring at him, I quickly stand up and extend my hand to him. If you look closely, you can see my trembling, and I hope my hands aren't sweaty.

He scrutinizes me from head to toe, making me feel defenseless and naked despite my clothes. My cheeks are practically glowing. His facial features soften, and he smiles at me with an incredible, predatory smile that makes me step back a bit but also completely captivates me.

“Hello Catherine, I am very pleased to finally meet you in person.”

His voice is so deep and rough that everything inside me tightens. He takes off his knee-length dark wool coat, allowing me to study him thoroughly. He is tall, probably around 6'3"(1,90 m). Muscular, but not overly ripped, which I personally do not like in men.

His chiseled face is adorned with a dark shadow of stubble. His hair is black and slicked back, not in a greasy way, but casually and yet somehow elegant.

I feel the urge to reach out and touch it, but of course, I don't. He too is dressed in dark clothing—a black shirt with the top buttons undone and the sleeves slightly rolled up. Black jeans, a dark brown belt, and dark shoes, like the kind you'd wear with a suit.

I have to remind myself to breathe again. This man looks incredibly handsome, almost perfect, and that makes me even more nervous. I feel like an awkward teenager, unsure of how to behave. The young women in the bar have also noticed him; you can see their hungry glances. It wouldn't surprise me if they soon stood there drooling with open mouths. It's almost embarrassing.

Then I collect myself. I am no better than these young women; I too might soon be drooling if I'm not careful. A small feeling of arrogance and self-satisfaction rises in me because this man is here with me tonight and seems to have eyes only for me. He takes my hand, and I nearly pull back:

“Shh, kitten, everything is fine. We just want to get to know each other, you don't have to do anything you don't want to.”

His soothing words have the desired effect, and some tension eases. It might seem silly that he calls me kitten, but that's due to my ill-considered name in the chat, “Cath”—I know, not very original.

But as I mentioned earlier, I have no experience with online dating. He quickly turned "Cath" into "Cat" and then "kitten." I don't quite know what to make of it, but this breathtaking man can call me whatever he wants right now.

I take a sharp breath in. I take another sip of my red wine, even though I know it would be better to stay sober. The alcohol does its job, and my restlessness gradually subsides. He sits down across from me and orders a wine for himself as well. We engage in small talk, discussing hobbies, the weather, and much more. But we aren't really here to talk. Naturally, he noticed the interesting choice of the bar, looking around skeptically and teasing me in a humorous way; he agreed that he liked the music, so we both found something positive about the location. Slowly, I start to feel more comfortable around him and am ready for the evening to progress.

I briefly go to the restroom to freshen up and look at myself in the mirror. Confidently, I return my own gaze, giving myself a pep talk that it's perfectly fine to spend the night with this incredibly attractive and interesting stranger, and I reapply my lipstick. Even though I quit smoking some time ago, I am suddenly overcome with a strong urge for a cigarette. But I won't start up that bad habit again; it would only be my undoing.

I shake my head at my wandering thoughts, turn around, and head back to the small niche where we are sitting. Before I reach it, I put on what I hope is my most seductive smile, look at him nervously, and say somewhat shakily, "I think I'm ready, even though it's been really nice sitting here and chatting with you, but we had other plans for the evening, unless you have any objections?"

I immediately notice a sparkle in his eyes and he puts on that smile you only see in hunters right before they strike their prey. My heart races. He makes me feel like running away, but that's probably just part of his game, his dominant nature, or my inexperience with dating.

With one gulp, I finish my last sip of wine, which suddenly tastes almost bitter. Probably the excitement, I think to myself. He stands up, places some cash on the table to pay for our drinks, then puts on his coat and holds mine out for me to slip into. Damon behaves like a true gentleman, easing my discomfort about the whole situation. He places his hand on my lower back, and even that touch almost drives me insane.

Jealous glances from other women hit me. Gently, he guides me through the crowd towards the exit. Once outside, the cold nearly overwhelms me. The darkness envelops us, with only the dim lighting from the stores providing some light. There aren't many people around; it's simply too cold, and most will be staying indoors. It's already quite frosty for November, and today there's a light wind and drizzle, just like you'd imagine a nasty November day. I look up at him, wanting to show him the way, as we had agreed to go to my place; then I could still kick him out if he creeps me out or, in an emergency, scream for the neighbors to hear.

He points in the opposite direction: "My car is over there, I would prefer not to leave it here."

I don't have to think about his offer for long. Given the damp cold, my enthusiasm for waiting for the subway is limited anyway.

I feel a bit dizzy. The red wine seems to be going to my head. Combined with the unfavorable transition from the hot, rather stuffy bar directly into the cool air, it's affecting my circulation. We quickly reach his car, which is nearby, and I'm relieved because the moisture is already seeping through my clothes and I'm shivering.

A black Mercedes, an SUV or maybe an off-road vehicle?

I'm not very familiar with cars, but it somehow suits him.

He holds the door open for me, and I slide into the passenger seat; the soft light leather wraps around me. This car surely has seat heating, I'll ask him about it soon, a small luxury I appreciate in newer vehicles.

My limbs feel heavy, and I become increasingly dazed and tired. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him get in on the driver's side and start the car. There was something I wanted to ask him, but I can't remember it anymore. My eyes grow heavy, and my thoughts become more and more clouded; I can't seem to grasp anything properly.

I slur, "Heeyww, I think I'm druunk and really tired."

He looks at me, and I hear him soothe, "Sleep, kitten, everything will be fine. You need to rest now so you have enough strength for your new home and your new tasks."

I'm confused. I don't understand what he's talking about. What new home? I just moved into my new apartment... Or did I? I don't understand what he means. But at the moment, I don't care. I just want to rest a little. My thoughts continue to blur, and then everything goes dark...

Damon

Finally, she sleeps. It was difficult to maintain the friendly facade for so long, even though my sole goal was to get her out of that wretched bar and into my car as quickly as possible. I would have preferred to grab her immediately and throw her over my shoulder instead of wasting time on small talk; the way she ogled me, she probably would have even liked it. But that would have drawn too much attention to us. As I drive, I reach into her coat, search for her smartphone, and toss it out the window. She won't need it anymore, and I need to cover my tracks. I look at her; sitting there, asleep and completely zoned out. I would love to pounce on her right away, but it's no fun if she doesn't notice. Though I believe that if she does notice, she won't enjoy it either. But I certainly will. I smirk. She is almost perfect with her naive, childlike manner. Generally, she is a rather inconspicuous person, pretty, but not extraordinarily attractive. The way she blushed just at the sight of me. I will make her blush in entirely different ways. She sat so timidly in the bar.

She already mentioned that she hasn't had much experience, but it seems to me that this is her first meeting of this kind. Like a little lamb that doesn't know it's being led to the slaughterhouse. We've been chatting for a few weeks now. I had almost given up hope that she would be ready for a meeting; she didn't even want to exchange photos of our faces.

If tonight had been a bust, I would have politely said goodbye and looked for someone new for my plans, but her face and she are very appealing.

In the chat, I hinted a few times at what I'm into. She was quite taken with the idea of being tied up and helplessly at my mercy, having me spank her and show some dominance. I wonder if she'll still be so enthusiastic when she wakes up chained in my basement?

I grin even more at the thought; seeing her helpless and confused in my basement, full of panic, already gives me a massive hard-on. But I need to stay clear-headed now. I have a long way to go, as I certainly don't pick someone for my game who lives right in the neighborhood. At first, I wasn't sure if I could pull off just abducting her; it's not something I do every weekend, and it's one of the things I have no experience with. Then I saw her, and she was perfect for it, like a ripe peach waiting to be picked.

I noticed that she wanted me too, and when she went to the restroom, I saw my chance to slip the knockout drops into her wine. Fear overcame me that she might notice something; you aren't supposed to taste them much, but the drink could become slightly bitter, and frankly, I had no desire to test that out myself.

Hasn't anyone taught her to watch her drink or not to get into cars with strangers? Sure, she could have said she wanted to end the evening or stay longer in the bar, but I would have come up with something. However, that wasn't necessary.

My kitten was already keen on me and wanted to take me home with her. Her mistake. Her first instinct to step back was correct. She should have run as far away as possible, but now it's too late. Now she belongs to me, and I will never let her go...

Catherine

I wake up slowly from a dreamless sleep. It’s cold. Maybe I forgot to close the window; after all, it’s mid-November. My head throbs horribly. I can barely form a coherent thought and can’t organize the chaos in my mind. My mouth feels furry. How much did I drink last night? What even happened? I was in that weird 80s college bar, Damon came. My stomach flutters at the memory of that attractive, flawless man. But what happened then? Did we go to my place? This is typical of me. I meet the hottest guy ever and drink myself into oblivion. He’s probably long gone by now. I desperately need a sip of water and to close that damn window before I freeze to death. When I finally manage to open my eyes, I see nothing but darkness. Is it still night? My sense of time is completely off. I move a little, nausea sets in, then I notice something even more disturbing, something cold and heavy on my ankle. Confused, I reach for it. I feel a chain and a metal ring around my ankle.

Panic rises in me. Did something happen after all last night? I reach out beside the bed where my nightstand with the phone and the small green vintage lamp should be. But there's no nightstand or lamp, just the cold, rough floor.

Quietly, I say to myself, "Just don't panic, maybe we did go to his place after all."

Bondage games were agreed upon; maybe I got drunk and fell into a coma, and he went to sleep on the couch, because he's not here—I can't make out any other person in this dark room. My heartbeat accelerates, my breathing quickens, and only now do I realize that I'm not wearing any clothes. I start shivering immediately from the cold and fear. What happened? Why can't I remember anything? I'm unsure of what to do. Should I call for him or just wait and try not to freak out? The headache becomes unbearable. I'd kill for an aspirin to sort my thoughts better. Once again, I feel around hopefully. Looking for a light switch or anything else that could help me now. Directly to my left is the wall, also cold and rough. No light switch. The thing I'm lying on doesn't deserve to be called a bed. A mattress on the floor, like something you'd find in a junkie's den. I feel for the chain on my foot again and follow it with my hands. It's attached to a massive ring in the wall, and the chain is quite short. I won't get much farther than where the mattress is. What do I do? How did I end up here? There's still a small glimmer of hope that this is part of some game Damon and I played last night.

Tears gather in my eyes and roll down my cheeks. Seeing no other option, I muster all my courage and call into the darkness.

“Damon, are you there?” Nothing...

“Please come here and untie me, I’m done with this stupid game! I want to go home.”

... Silence...

Damon

The drive back to my place drained me, as it was quite a long distance, and I had to stay focused the entire time in the dark and wet conditions. Only my high adrenaline levels allowed me to make the trip without any breaks. Any stop would have risked being seen. I had already imagined getting pulled over by the police, but everything worked out. No observers or getting caught speeding. I’d love to just crawl into bed and sleep, but now isn’t the right time for that. I’ve already brought the kitten to her new home. I also removed that annoying clothing of hers. Such a naughty little kitten—she was wearing outrageously sexy black lace lingerie underneath her clothes. For a moment, I was tempted to leave it on her because it looked really hot, and I had to make a huge effort to keep my hands to myself. But completely naked, chained, and at my mercy—that will make her awakening even sweeter. So, I took her lingerie with me. I slipped her panties into my pocket for now; they might still come in handy.

If you’re expecting me to give you a reason at this point for why I kidnap a woman, chain her up, and torture her in my basement, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. There is no reason. I had a great childhood, loving parents, and no dramatic experiences that could explain it. Maybe it was just the boredom of existence that drove me to it. I do it simply because I want to, and obviously, because I can. The thought of having a woman all to myself, using her whenever and however I want, without any annoying safeword, drives me absolutely wild. I want to own her completely—every fiber of her body and mind should belong to me. I want her to surrender to me, even if every part of her screams to run away. I want to break her into a thousand pieces and then put her back together into a perfect thing, shaped according to my desires. I realized early on that I was different from others. Don’t worry, I never tortured animals; I never had much interest in that. It was more of a sexual nature. When we watched TV and a woman was slapped, manhandled, or became the victim of a horrific kidnapping where unspeakable things were done to her, I was instantly fascinated and aroused like nothing else. While other boys in my class jerked off to thoughts of Britney Spears or Pamela Anderson sucking their tiny dicks, I got off on the idea of choking these women until they were almost dead, locking them in my closet on my terms, and fucking them so hard they probably wouldn’t be able to walk for days. I knew it wasn’t normal.

At first, I hated myself for it and often thought about seeing a therapist. I kept asking myself what was wrong with me. I wanted to be like everyone else, but that’s over now! I always knew how to hide it, and I kept this monster inside me locked away behind thick walls and heavy locks.

For a long time, I settled for harmless games. But now, I’m glad to be different, especially when I see my former classmates with their boring housewives, two kids, and the handful of times they have sex each year—if you can even call it that.

If they can keep sticking their dicks into the same hole while their wife lies bored beneath them, thinking about all the household chores she still has to do, and he’s imagining what it would be like to fuck his young secretary in the ass—no, thanks! I’ll pass. You might as well live in celibacy.

So, I cracked the door open, little by little, and now the beast’s roar is impossible to ignore. But I’m getting sidetracked. Let’s see if she’s starting to wake up. I’ve been preparing for this too long to miss Sleeping Beauty’s awakening now.

Slowly, I make my way to the control room. On the way, I pour myself a glass of whiskey—it calms my nerves and keeps me from doing anything rash. Her room was meticulously planned. The temperature can be adjusted from here. Cold, I thought, would be nicer for her arrival. The lighting can be controlled, and everything is soundproofed. Not that anyone would hear her screaming anyway, given how remote my place is. I’ve installed speakers in the room, a toilet, and a shower, because I don’t want to constantly clean up after her, and I don’t want her unwashed either. More freedom, however, is a privilege she’ll have to earn. Down in the basement, there’s a thick door secured with a code, and at the top of the stairs is another door, also secured with a code. The basement door is designed to be inconspicuous—it looks like a giant mirror. Hidden in the frame is a small button to open it. Her room has no windows, so she can only guess whether it’s day or night. There are cameras in every corner, and everything is recorded so I can review the footage if needed. All in all, I’m proud of myself and the thorough preparation. During the preparations, I occasionally wondered if I’d completely lost my mind and if I should stop this, if maybe I was going too far. But the urge and the roar behind the wall, which had begun to crumble, were louder.

I can usually tell right from wrong without any issue, and I do struggle with the decision to destroy this woman’s life. However, the thought of the possibilities this opens up for me is simply too delicious. I head into my control room—this door is also secured with a code lock.

Even though you might think someone like me is a lonely weirdo, that’s not the case. I maintain a good social life with friends and family, which is why I have to take precautions to ensure no one stumbles into my private spaces and discovers the sick bastard hiding behind this facade of normalcy.

I enter the control room. I’ve made it cozy—soft lighting, an extremely comfortable office chair that’s almost like an armchair and cost me a fortune, and a sleek, modern desk where all my electronics are stored, everything in various shades of gray. I’ll probably be spending a lot of time here, so I want it to be nice. Besides the direct interaction with her, I want to study her every reaction. I want to see her struggle with herself, watch as the seed of acceptance takes root, as she doubts and slowly gives up her desire for freedom, just to survive in this basement and earn the privileges for good behavior.

Stockholm Syndrome is a fascinating concept, and I’m more than happy to use it to my personal advantage and pleasure. I set down my half-empty glass, glance at the monitors—still no movement from her. Did I give her too much of the knockout drops? I’d love to check.

“Note to self: next woman I sedate with knockout drops, put a fitness tracker on her for vital monitoring.”

But if I go in there now, the element of surprise will be lost if she notices me, and if she doesn’t wake up at all, well, I’ll just get myself a new toy.

I’m not really a murderer, as I mentioned before—I usually have a good grasp of right and wrong, and I generally stick to it. But if the situation demands it, I can make peace with that too; I’ve come too far to give up now. Besides, I’ve done my research thoroughly. She’s probably just sleeping more deeply because of the wine. So, I grab my laptop and use the time to get some work done. I’m lucky enough to work from home, as I’m employed by a large IT company—data security, boring, I know. On top of that, I inherited a decent sum from my grandparents, so I don’t really have to worry much about working hard, and I treat it more like a hobby. Maybe we’re getting closer to uncovering the roots of my boredom and the decision to become a kidnapper, I note with amusement.

After about an hour, she finally stirs. I stare transfixed at the screen, absorbing every movement and expression on her face, visible thanks to the night vision mode. She’s going to have one hell of a hangover and will likely be completely disoriented. What a shame I can’t hear her thoughts. Slowly, you can see her starting to grasp her situation. Realizing that something’s wrong and that she’s made a terrible mistake.

Poor kitten—all she wanted was a little fun and to live out some fantasies after years of being trapped in a loveless, sexless relationship as a doll. And what did she get out of it? Now she’ll be trapped in my fantasy instead. But this time, it’s not just symbolic—it’s a real prison. In the cage I built especially for her. But don’t worry, kitten. I already love you in my own special way, and it won’t be sexless here either. When we met at the bar, I knew right away that I had to have her, and all the other women there didn’t matter. In that moment, she had my full attention—she practically absorbed it. Now, she’d probably give anything to not have it anymore. Just the thought of our time together gives me a massive hard-on, the kind I haven’t had in a long time. I’d love to go down to her right now and show her what’s in store, to fuck her in every position imaginable.

But as they say, anticipation is the greatest joy. Considering what’s still to come, I don’t think that’s true this time, but right now, it feels damn right and good. I hear her whimpering through the microphones installed in the room, calling out for me, slowly realizing the gravity of her situation. Then I think about the panties in my pocket, pull them out, open my pants where my erection springs free, and start stroking myself with increasingly faster movements. I hold the panties to my nose, inhaling her scent, and keep my eyes fixed on her on the screen. It doesn’t take long before I finish, and then I slump back into my chair, satisfied.

“Not much longer, my kitten. I’ll be there soon.”

3 weeks earlier

Catherine

I’m slowly settling into my new apartment. It’s located in a quieter part of the city, yet there’s a subway station right nearby since I don’t own a car. Across from my apartment is a park, and I’m really looking forward to spring. I’ve made a firm resolution to take a walk there every evening. Plus, I have a small balcony that I plan to fill with plants. This apartment was an absolute stroke of luck, and it’s affordable too—something you rarely find these days. It’s also in an old building, and I love the charm of these structures. Everything is pretty much set up now. In about four weeks, I’ll start my new job at a care facility. I love working with people, but it’s also very exhausting and a new challenge every day. So, I’m going to enjoy the next few weeks and recover from the stresses of recent times—or maybe from my entire life so far, which hasn’t exactly gone the way I hoped it would. I was in a relationship with a man for seven years. I felt like I was in a gilded cage. As long as I played the role of his pretty little doll, everything was fine. How could I let myself bend and be blinded like that? What can I say? I was young. When I met him, I was a tender 23 years old. Back then, he seemed like a real man to me—almost 10 years older than me, successful in sales at a luxury car dealership, handsome at 6’1” (1,85 m) with short brown hair and emerald-green eyes to fall in love with. It sounds superficial, and maybe I was too, hoping to find something better than what I had known up to that point. He enchanted me with his charm. At first, he treated me like a princess, anticipating my every wish. I felt like royalty. But it was all just an act, as I now know. Soon, nothing was good enough for him—I wasn’t good enough. I kept trying to meet his expectations until I eventually lost myself and found myself stuck in a boring, completely suffocating relationship. One where he controlled everything, especially me, and before I knew it, the years that were supposed to be the best of my life were over.

Now I’m 31, and I haven’t really experienced anything. I went to secondary school, graduated, did a voluntary social year, and then trained to become a nurse. The first few years were tough—I was barely scraping by month to month, and there was hardly enough to live on. At the end of my training, I was determined to travel with the money I’d painstakingly saved, but as often happens, things turned out completely differently.

Mark came into my life, and I was head over heels in love. He was the first man I could imagine a future with—all the clichés: a house, a dog, kids, till death do us part. God, I would have done anything for him back then, if only he had loved me the way I loved him. No travels, no new cities, no wild flings—just wasted time. And another blow to my self-esteem. Unfortunately, Mark wasn’t fulfilling in bed either. Back then, I didn’t really know what I wanted, and I still don’t. But with him, it always felt like a chore, something you had to get through. He said sex wasn’t that important to him, and I kept telling myself the same thing. Until I found out that sex was important to him—just not with me, and not with the same woman. For him, it was all about conquest, like a trophy he wanted to possess. I don’t know how many times he cheated on me, and I don’t even want to know—it just disgusts me. I was just his pretty “showpiece” girlfriend, someone he could take to events, dress up, and mold to his liking. But I was always too chubby, poorly dressed, not tall enough, not obedient enough. But that’s all over now.

I immediately cut off my long blonde hair, dyed it black, and banished all the pretty dresses. Only the clothes I like are left, along with my new, independent “self” that doesn’t give a damn about what others expect of me.

I’m not good enough? Fine, then screw off. I like my new “me” and I’m excited to explore the world and finally enjoy all the freedoms I’ve missed out on over the past few years. Soon, I’ll be going on my first vacation, and I’ve already moved to a new city—I desperately needed a fresh start. New city, new me, new life. Even if I don’t know anyone here yet, that will change soon. I’m definitely going to work on that. If I shed some of my shyness, I get along well with most people. I’ve already signed up for a dating platform that’s more about physical encounters than long-term relationships. I’m not interested in the next man chaining me down—unless they’re real chains in bed. The thought makes me smile, and I feel a tingle in my lower belly.

I’ve been reading a lot of dark romance books, and what I find in them turns me on immensely. It doesn’t have to be that intense right away, though. A bad boy who shows me how it’s done in bed? Hot!

A few days ago, someone messaged me. There’s something about him that immediately drew me in. Unfortunately, we haven’t had much time to deepen the conversations yet because I’ve been busy with the move and all the organization that comes with it. But that’s going to change now. I’m going to grab some food—maybe something from the Chinese place around the corner—and a bottle or two of wine. That’ll loosen my tongue and ease my inhibitions. It’s a beautifully warm October day, and I’m looking forward to the walk. I simply love the colors of autumn.

CHAT

Cathloged in…..Owner1.4Uloged in…..

Owner1.4U:Good evening, Cath. It’s great that you found the time to meet up with me here tonight.

Cath:Yes, I’m really looking forward to it too. I finally have a little more time now—moving is really stressful, after all.

Owner1.4U:Why do you go by Cath, anyway? Was Cat already taken, or did you just mistype it?

Cath: *Haha*No, unfortunately, it’s just a boring abbreviation of my name. I’ve never been in chats like this before, and nothing else really came to mind.

Owner1.4U: Too bad. Cat would’ve been kind of cute. Then you’d be my little kitten now. But since I don’t know your full name yet, I’ll still call you kitten. I think it fits perfectly. I believe we left off last time trying to figure out what you like.

Cath: Yeah, that’s not an easy question to answer. I’ve already told you a bit about my unspectacular life over the past few years. But I’ve always dreamed of a man who’ll take charge, who’ll make me feel at his mercy and use me however he wants. That turns me on like crazy. This is all new to me, and I’m a little embarrassed about how inexperienced I am. But if you don’t run for the hills, maybe we can explore where this goes together.

Owner1.4U:You don’t need to be embarrassed. If you do as I say, my little kitten, I’ll show you worlds you’ve never even dared to dream of. You just have to let yourself go. We’ll take it slow and figure out where your limits are. We’ll step out of your comfort zone—slowly, piece by piece, together. It might not always feel good right away; it might hurt, but we both know you want it to hurt, and you’re just missing someone to show you how that pain can turn into pleasure. I promise you, I’ll never cross a line or do anything you don’t want. You just have to let me lead, and I’ll show you the way. Now tell me, will you be a good kitten and do as I say?

Cath: Yes, I’ll be good and do what you ask of me.

Owner1.4U: That’s my good kitten. Now take off your clothes and show me how you like to touch yourself. Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to show me your face (though that would be very tempting for me ;) ). I want to see how you like to be touched and how you come.

……Video Call is starting.….

1 year earlier

Damon

A few weeks ago, I watched a documentary about the worst criminals. I don’t remember exactly what the show was called—you know how it is, something’s playing in the background on TV, and suddenly you can’t look away. There was a man on it who had kept a woman, more specifically his daughter, locked in his basement for years without anyone noticing. How someone can be so sick as to rape and imprison their own daughter in a basement is beyond me. But who am I to judge others? For years, no one noticed—not even his own wife, who lived in the same house. The basement was so well hidden, and his wife was probably just happy to have her peace and quiet while her husband had a new mysterious hobby in the garage or wherever the entrance was. But the thought of such a basement hasn’t left me since. The idea of having a woman all to myself down there, for my pleasure, for as long as I want. I wouldn’t have to care about what she wants. I wouldn’t have to hold back like I always do. No stupid safeword being called out just when the fun is starting.

Don’t get me wrong, I have a fulfilling sex life and am far from the typical vanilla housewife sex. And don’t even come at me with the 50 Shades games—I’m way past that, and I’m not satisfied with it either. I want to own her, for her to be completely my property, like a thing you take out when you need it. The thought of shaping that thing until it willingly wants to be mine is what I can’t let go of.

I’m good-looking—at least, that’s what people keep telling me. I also put in the work to keep myself in shape, and I think I’ve held up well for my 36 years. No gray hairs or wrinkles in sight yet. My eyes are the highlight for any woman and a blessing for me. They’re a light brown, but when the light hits them, they look almost yellow—like a cat. I’ve been told many times how unique they are, and the contrast with my black hair makes it almost perfect. Because of that, I usually get what I want; I also have a certain charm, and when I want to, I can be very considerate. The problem is, I want more—much more.

More than what a woman I meet would willingly give me.

So, not long after the show, I started fantasizing. What if? Yes, what if I had a secret basement like that? What if there was a woman in chains down there? What if I kept her there against her will? What if I could fuck her whenever and however I wanted, inflict pain on her without her having any chance of escape, and her pleading and begging meant nothing to me? What if I didn’t care about anything and soon became the one who completely controlled her life? She’d be dependent on me and would do whatever I demanded. Because no one wants to starve alone in a basement or suffer something even worse. I’d manipulate her, play my games with her, give her pain, pleasure, and psychological torment. Sometimes she’d wish for death, only to be pulled back by me and thrown into the abyss again.

Death would certainly come for her eventually. Because there’d be no escape from my grasp. Then I’d have to take precautions. She wouldn’t be allowed to see my face—I don’t want to wear a ridiculous mask, and I wouldn’t want to cover her eyes either. I’d miss so much of what plays out there.

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Would mine reflect hell? I hope to see madness in hers. No, covering them is out of the question. But let’s not think about how it ends. Instead, let’s think about how I can start. I’ll have to buy a few things and make some preparations around the house. Good thing I don’t have any close neighbors who could watch me. And then, of course, it’s important to find the right candidate for me. I’m not set on a specific look, but the circumstances have to be right. Maybe someone a bit isolated, so she wouldn’t be missed right away. She should be somewhat innocent, so I can teach her something. Someone who’s like a shy, timid deer.

It won’t be easy to find someone like that. But I’m patient. Because, as I mentioned before, I usually always get what I want!

1 week earlier

Catherine

I’ve already settled into my new home and love my one-room apartment. Who needs a lot of space anyway? The main thing is that it’s cozy. My decor is retro-style, with older furniture—I love flea markets and classified ads. I’ve got lots of candles, lights, and plants. Everything is in green and earthy tones because, even though I live in the city, I love nature and dream of someday walking through tropical forests, listening to exotic birds sing. That’s why I’ve designed everything here with a bit of a jungle theme.

My apartment is my safe space and retreat when everything around me gets too overwhelming. I spend most of my time here in bed with my thousand pillows and blankets—though that’s also because I use the bed as a couch. There’s an antique wardrobe, a small oak kitchen with a tiny table and two chairs. You won’t find any luxury here. I don’t even have a PC or laptop at the moment. All that’s left is my smartphone. But it’s mine, and I’ve never been all that into tech stuff anyway. I left everything behind from my old life. I didn’t want anything that reminded me of him or any handouts from him that would keep me under his control. Mark reached out to me a few more times, telling me how sorry he was. But it’s too late for that. I’ll never give someone that kind of power over me again—except maybe in bed.

By now, I’ve changed my phone number because the relationship suffocated me over the years, and I only threw myself into my work. In our shared life, I didn’t have many friends either—if you could even call the few people I occasionally met friends. They were really more Mark’s friends, and they probably won’t even notice I have a new number. I should remember to give my parents the updated number.

Even though it’ll probably take them a few weeks, months, or maybe even years to notice I’m no longer reachable on my old number. They’ve always been more focused on themselves and on drinking as much as possible in a short amount of time. I took responsibility for myself early on. No lovingly made sandwiches for school, fun outings, or unforgettable childhood memories—except for them lying drunk on the couch and not getting out of bed until Sunday afternoon.

Maybe that’s why I clung to the first man who gave me a sense of security. I told my mother about the breakup, but in her eyes, it was my fault. How could I possibly drive away the oh-so-perfect Mark? The ideal son-in-law, with his fancy clothes and cool car. If he cheated on me, it was only because I wasn’t good enough and didn’t try hard enough. Thanks for that, Mom!

Mark and my family manipulated me for too long, making me believe that this was how things had to be, that I had to be this way and bend even more to his wishes. Whatever—the days of sadness and bad moods are over. My new life has begun, and I can say with some pride that things are going pretty well. I haven’t made any friends yet, but that will surely change soon. It also seems almost impossible to meet people outside the internet these days.

I’ll keep looking for places where people meet up in the city, and it’ll happen eventually. At least something’s happening on the sex front. The man I’ve been talking to, Owner1.4U—who, by the way, is named Damon—seems to be an absolute jackpot.

We text almost every evening, and, well, video chat, where he demands God-knows-what from me. We haven’t even had sex yet, and he’s already giving me the best orgasms of my life with the fantasies he’s revealing to me. It wasn’t exactly hard to achieve, but it still feels amazing.

He wants to meet me next week. I can hardly wait, even though I’m bursting with excitement. I wish I had a bestfriend to share all the dirty details with. But oh well, maybe someday. First, I have to get through the week and make a few preparations. We’re meeting at a bar to get to know each other—I picked a bar where there are lots of people, so if he creeps me out, I can just send him away or fake an illness. But if I like him, which I think I will, I’ll take him back to my place, since I’m not comfortable with the idea of going to his. I haven’t seen a full picture of him yet. Our video chats have so far been limited to areas further down, since it’s pretty daring, and I don’t want to end up on some amateur porn site masturbating on camera. But what I’ve seen of his body so far is breathtaking. Just right—absolutely delicious. I wonder how he’ll taste, smell, or feel.

I don’t know his face yet, but I think it’ll match the rest of his body. I fervently hope he’s not too disappointed with me.

Exercise has never been my friend—I’m not fat, but I’m not exactly slim either. I wish I had more up top—my measly A-cup has never been my favorite. At least they’re still perky. My butt is round, and I actually find it quite nice. I have a little belly—I just can’t resist sweets sometimes. Damn it, now I’m annoyed I don’t have more time to get in better shape. I’m meeting a true Adonis, and I’m just… me. Oh well, he’ll have to take me as I am, or he’s out of luck. I’m sure I can find someone else. But of course, I hope it doesn’t come to that—there’s something about him that’s really captivated me.

Like one of the antiheroes from my novels.

4 weeks earlier

Damon

I meticulously prepared everything for my visitor, who will hopefully be moving in soon. Every detail was researched and planned down to the smallest detail. The necessary materials were purchased piece by piece from various sources because I don't intend to raise any red flags with a suspiciously compiled shopping list on Amazon. I went through different chat rooms, contact ads, and forums to find the right one. As I said, I'm patient. There are already four potential candidates to choose from:

Sahra: 27 years old.

A cute little blonde with killer tits, she's really looking for her sugar daddy, she'd probably come down to my cellar voluntarily if I promised her the little bag from Prada.

Janine: 34 years old.

A redhead with a temper. I'd love to wrap her hair around my hand and thrust deep and hard into her sweet mouth until she can't breathe and begs me to stop with her eyes. But she would be a risk, lives not far from her family and probably has a bunch of friends. Maybe I should take the risk anyway.

Cath: 31 years old.

A pretty thing, as far as I can tell from her body. I haven't seen her face yet, because she flatly refuses to do so. Such an inexperienced, unassuming girl, so vulnerable and her curves are in exactly the right place. She's very reserved and we haven't had much opportunity to write because she's moved house, but I don't plan to write her off straight away. Maybe she'll turn out to be suitable after all.

Esma: 29 years old.

A Spanish beauty. She moved here from Spain to study. A stunning woman. She knows exactly what she wants. But the question is whether it makes sense to get a woman like that. Trouble is inevitable with her. Not that I have a problem with that, but maybe it would be too annoying for me in the long run. Personally, I think I have a nice choice here and the next few days will decide who it will be and if I can't decide, then I'll just flip a coin and seal the woman's fate.

Day 1

Catherine

No one responds to my calls. It’s dead silent. No sound. No cars or people, nothing can be heard. There doesn’t seem to be a window here. Nothing seems to exist here except complete darkness and silence. Desperation begins to take hold of me. In the darkness of this room, I can’t tell where I am or if there’s anything here that could help me.

My mind starts conjuring up scenes straight out of a horror movie. Hooks hanging from the ceiling with body parts. Bloody walls, creepy crawling bugs, an autopsy table. It’s just dead silent, and that’s driving me insane—not knowing what’s going on here. Whether it’s day or night, whether someone will come to check on me, or if I’ve been left here alone in this dark, unknown room to die.

None of this makes any sense.

My life was just supposed to be beginning.

I had so many plans, and everything was finally supposed to get better.

Anger wells up inside me. This can’t be happening; he can’t take this away from me again. I scream into the darkness, “YOU DAMN ASSHOLE, GET OVER HERE RIGHT NOW AND TELL ME WHAT’S GOING ON!”

…Silence…

I start to cry. “Please…!” I beg. But no one comes.