Caitlin decided he had to keep the bed linens and bath towels in the other closet by the kitchen. She could probably use a knife to unscrew the hinges, or maybe the hasps holding the padlock(s). And if that didn't work, there had to be an axe around somewhere to chop firewood. Once she got the door off, she would fashion a toga out of a sheet, or maybe cut a hole in a blanket to go over her head like a poncho…
"And then what?" the annoying little voice asked.
Hike 10 miles to the next house? In your bare feet? In a blizzard?
And then what? Confess to the woodchucks in their decrepit trailer with a satellite TV dish on the porch that your new boyfriend had abandoned your nude body in the wilderness?
And then what? "No, officer, I wasn't kidnapped." Technically.
"I'm going to head to the village to pick up some supplies," Joe had announced after commanding her to take off all her clothes, then packing them in her suitcase (current whereabouts unknown, suspected in the trunk of his car).
"Don't get into any trouble while I'm gone."
No, the trouble would start as soon as he returned.
This will teach you to pick up guys on the Internet, she told herself. He looked so good in text, too. Single. Handy. Rugged. Kinky. But when he had typed "how far do you want to go?" she never expected the answer to be "110 miles due north," much of it on dirt roads.
"It's just a little one-room cabin in the mountains," Joe had told her, "where I keep my secrets secret."
She opened one of the shutters and peered at the last vestiges of the weak winter sun waning through a tree-cluttered skyline. Snow flurries danced and swirled in the wind like a volcano erupting sideways. His tracks in the driveway had pretty much disappeared under fresh fall.
She hoped the chains hanging from the center beam in the ceiling weren't the ones meant for his tires.
The wood-burning stove was practically radioactive with cremation-level warmth, but Caitlin still considered turning on the electric heaters along the baseboards. Can't be too toasty, she decided, given the distinct lack of alternatives to protect her pink skin. As soon as Joe's headlights had disappeared over the ridge, she had methodically searched every cabinet, bureau, box and cubbyhole for something to wear, but found nothing beyond the usual housewares, plenty of canned food and bottled water, even an extra package of toilet paper. So thoughtful. So thorough. What's not to like?
His taste in art, for one. A matching set of framed black-and-white prints lined the walls, each one with a small handwritten number in the corner and "Photograph by Irving Klaw" typeset along the bottom of the white border. Judging by the hairstyles and lingerie worn by the models, the images were probably produced in the 1950s. But Caitlin couldn't decide if the overall context of the depicted bondage scenes was either menacingly modern or totally timeless.
Definitely the latter, she rued when she couldn't find a clock. But the search had led her to the first (unlocked) closet; instead of a single rod for hanging clothes, it boasted a row of vertical wooden slats between the narrow walls running from floor to ceiling, and dozens of wide leather straps hanging on the door. It even had its own little heater—so thoughtful, so thorough—although she didn't dare imagine how hot it might get with the door closed.
"This place is a fucking medieval dungeon masquerading as Little House in the Woods," she said out loud as she inspected the myriad hooks and eyebolts screwed almost at random into the log walls. Cue marauding Indians with a taste for white women…stop that, Caitlin. It's the 21st century; redskin warriors only scalp palefaces at the blackjack tables in their faux-rustic casinos dotting once-civilized states like Connecticut.
There was a row of cupboards built into the wall next to the living-room area, all but one secured with imposing steel like the linen closet. Not so thorough after all, Caitlin grinned. But her smile was short-lived when the open door revealed nothing but a polished wooden box that measured six inches deep and maybe a foot around its four edges. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the hinged lid to find a collection of plastic, silicon and latex dildos—no, make that butt plugs—arranged side by side in two rows like expectant cigars, their exact dimensions neatly cut out in a bed of foam padding. There was a total of 11 devices; the smallest looked like a beige robin's egg, while the largest, a conical black blob divided into three increasingly wider sections, would scare an elephant. Many of the prods were wired to battery control units which undoubtedly produced vibrations of various tones and temperaments.
What made the cumulative effect even worse was the pair of oversized dice nestled in the corner of the container. Sure enough, each plug was numbered on its base. Despite the sauna-like conditions she had created in the cabin, Caitlin shivered as she deduced that #7 was also most likely electrified via the metal bands running up the sides of its exterior.
Overcome by a sudden urge to use the toilet, she ducked into the small room next to the unlocked closet, flicked on the light, and turned around to sit on the throne. Her hand reached out instinctively to close the door, but as soon as she realized there was no reason to be modest, her fingers reported something heavy. And leather.
She pushed the door closed, and almost screamed when her eyes registered nothing less than a human garment bag, laces bristling from the top of the head all the way down to a single high heel that had to be at least seven inches tall. Her breathing didn't improve when she turned it around and saw the padded blindfold, gag and zippered flaps over the breasts and crotch regions. The gleaming blackness of the surface was punctuated by thin ridges that shaped the leather to conform to the wearer's legs, hips, waist, torso and neck. Corset stays. None too flexible, either.
Looks like my size, Caitlin gulped as she wondered how many women had been mummified in this contraption before her.
Before. Her. Another gulp as she noted the metal rings scattered down the sides and remembered the chains hanging from the ceiling.
Okay, this is ridiculous, she admonished herself. He's going to show up any minute, arms overloaded with plastic sacks and 12-packs of Sam Adams. Was there a bar in town? Was he bragging to the locals about his latest catch? She realized she had never seen him drunk. Did he get ditzy? Or just more dangerous? Than this?
She found herself looking forward to Monday morning, although she wasn't sure if she would spend much time sitting at her desk, or anywhere else, for that matter.
Back to the window, watch the darkness descend in lockstep—to coin a phrase—with the flakes. Maybe some candles would make things more cheerful. Pull open a random drawer in the kitchenette, bingo, but these look like the emergency kind, no matter, we'll just pull off the shrinkwrap, hmm, the label reads "BDSM Waxplay-100% Low-Heat Paraffin"...well, it's probably not a good idea to have an open flame under these circumstances, but it's definitely time to add another log to the fire, and why does Joe have several hundred clothespins dangling from a long length of twine stretched over the sink?
Gotta find a distraction. Check the bookshelf, let's see, an Edgar Allen Poe anthology, a row of battered paperbacks about some place called Gor, Anne Rice, a few James Bond adventures, who's F.E. Campbell anyway?
Oh. Apparently, you can indeed judge a book by its cover, although it's hard to miss with titles like Penitent Prisoner, Invitation to Enslavement, Valley of Captive Maidens and Chained Destiny.
Prequels to her iminent autobiography.
After refueling the stove, Caitlin plopped down in a large wooden chair, and felt the cushion slip backwards. Peering between her naked thighs, she saw the beginning of a contoured circular hole in the seat. And then she noticed the fact that the four thick legs were bolted to the floor.
He'd better remember champagne.