BAIT GIRL

2^nd Edition

Diana Philbrick

The right of Diana Philbrick to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights and Patents Act 1988.

Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

This electronic book published by Fetish World Books

Fetish World Books is an imprint of Fiction4All

www.fiction4all.com

Chapter 1 - The Sticks

Ali El-Faid loved the simplicity of it--two wooden sticks and a few strips of leather.

He walked around the girl inspecting each tie. Even after all these years, it was still amazing to him how the bondage transformed a woman. She was extraordinary, desirable beyond words. He continued walking, admiring the graceful lines of her body, the smoldering fire in her dark eyes, the arch in her long pointed feet, her black hair...

The device was called Sai'na, the sticks, in the ancient language--two, five-foot-long, wooden staves tied together in the shape of a capital T. It has been used for centuries to discipline female slaves.

The woman would be stripped naked and held down on her stomach. Her legs would be pulled far apart and her ankles tied to the top of the T. When the time was just right, her torso would be arched back and her neck tied to the T's bottom. Her arms would remain free to hold her body up, preventing the Sai'na from strangling her. The pain in her back and legs would be excruciatingly in half-an-hour.

They were masters of disciple, he thought, his desert people. A three-point tie and she was completely helpless, in pain, and open.

The girl was following him with beggar's eyes. She could already feel the strength in her arms ebbing. Desperately, she raised one hand to her throat and tried to loosen the rope. Ali watched closely. In a moment, she slapped her hand back on the rug. He smiled. She wasn't strong enough to hold herself up with one hand to untie the knot at her throat. She wasn't courageous enough to strangle on her stomach to gain the use of two. None of them were. This was the real torture of Sai'na--freedom was only inches away but it took the strength and courage of a man to free oneself. Only one in ten thousand women could defeat the device.

He stood in front of the girl and took the whip from between her teeth.

It was a tool of his personal design, a short version of the traditional carriage whip. Carriage whips got their power from their double arc, one starting at the hand, the other near the whip's end. This greatly increased the speed of the tip. He had shortened both arcs then substituted modern materials to compensate for the loss of flexibility. The result was a shorter whip that inflicted almost the same amount of intense pain.

Perfecting it had taken him an enormous amount of time and money not to mention the suffering of countless test subjects, but it was worth it. He enjoyed perfection. It was after all the details that made life interesting.

The girl raised her index finger off the ground, asking permission to speak.

"You may speak," Ali said.

She lowered her eyes.

"I pray..." she whispered, "that my form pleases your eye; that my pain heats your blood; that my body is a worthy sheathe for your sword."

Ali was astonished. He had placed the book in her cell, but he never expected her to read it. Not only had she read it, she had memorizing the ancient prayer of the slave girl.

He knew she was intelligent, he had recruited her out of a master's program in languages, but this was far beyond his expectations.

It's more than happenstance, he realized. She had been drawn to him, to the book, to the prayer by her hidden nature. She was predisposed to this...this life, probably the descendent of a long line of slaves. His theory was that subordination was an instinct in women, stronger in some than in others, but always there. For many, like this one, it was a life-defining force.

"I pray..." she repeated with some uncertainty, "that my form pleases your eye; that my pain heats your blood; that my body is a worthy sheathe for your sword."

"Insha'Allah," he answered in the traditional manner--if Allah wills it.

He stepped in closer so that his throbbing shaft filled her vision then snapped his whip against the inside of her thigh. She sucked in her breath sharply. He flicked it again. She opened her mouth, inviting him inside.

"Not yet, my beauty," he said gently touching the side of her face with his free hand.

"Your body must be writhing in pain before we join. But you know this...you've read the book."

She looked up at him, slipping her tongue out between full wet lips. It was a gesture that most men simply could never refuse. But Ali El-Faid was not like most men. He had steeled himself against feminine wiles long ago.

The whip flicked again, popping on the sole of her upturned foot.

She moaned and her body twisted in excruciating pain. The twisting caused the sai'na to moan as well as the wet ropes strained against the wood.

She looked at him again. A lock of her black hair had fallen over one eye, creating an image of such sexuality that it caused him to shudder.

He lifted his balls to her mouth. She eagerly sucked them in.

"Stir me now, beauty. As the prayer says, let your pain heat my blood."

He struck her squarely across both ass cheeks. She moaned hard and deep and he felt it, every bone-chilling spasm. He sucked in his own breath.

Have strength, he thought. It would be blasphemy to take this one before her time. She deserves a thousand sweet deaths before we are done, nothing less.

The promise was sincere, but he wasn't sure he could deliver. Even though he was a master with women, a genetic skill, he believed, handed down from his desert ancestors, the battle between temptations and will was never a sure thing.

She was a lioness, this one, just the kind of woman The King's Club sought.

Chapter 2 - Dinner at Nobu

The Mercedes glided to a gentle stop under the Nobu awning. Carly sat quietly, waiting for the doorman to open her door. She knew the protocols of the super-rich even though she wasn't one of them. There's something magical about the soft leather in a car like this, she thought, as it massaged her bare skin. Nothing else feels the same. They live in a different world, these people, a very different world.

She had always wanted to dine at Nobu's. This was the place for show-business insiders. She wanted to rub elbows with them, to see and to be seen as they say. It was one of the ways people broke into the business.

Peter told her that he wanted to discuss business, but why Nobu's? A local coffee shop would have been good enough. But he insisted. That raised warning flags in her mind. Every instinct told her to be careful, that something else was afoot. Still...Nobu's! Despite the odds, the words "big break" continued to echo in her mind.

She knew that it was much more likely that his goal was T&A, specifically her T&A. Whatever... She was tired of the chaste life. It was time for her to ingest some male parts, especially those of someone so handsome, rich, and apparently so well-connected.

"Good evening, Miss," the doorman said grinning as if he had known her for years. She nodded dismissively and used his arm. The rich didn't bother being nice to their retainers.

Peter was standing in the foyer. Carly smiled her greeting as she removed her coat. His eyes moved over her body in open appraisal. She blushed appropriately, but secretly welcomed his scrutiny. Like beautiful women everywhere, she wanted her amazing body to be seen and admired.

But Peter was more than a simple admirer. He had a way of intimidating people, including her, with a glance. There was just something in his eyes that conveyed authority and danger. Carly liked it...the fear, it was like having a small buzz on whenever he was around. A steel fist hidden inside a velvet glove, that was the way she thought of him.

And she liked his manner. He used declarative sentences and gave orders as if he expected them to be obeyed. Most of the men she dated took a straw poll before giving an opinion and they didn't give orders, they floated propositions. She was tired of political correctness, of the endless quest for equality in all things. A strong man who knew what he wanted was a relief...a turn-on.

She lifted her arms over her head and twirled, making a joke of his outrageously direct scrutiny. He laughed and moved to her side, ignoring the others crowded into the space.

Peter was older, in his late forties, tall, thin, distinguished looking, with a chiseled face, and incredibly hard hands. He had visited the bar every day this week to "relax and unwind with good people."

Carly wasn't fooled. This was New York where everyone lies. Peter wasn't the kind of man who needed to "relax and unwind," especially in a twelve-dollar-a-drink Manhattan singles bar. He stood out like a wolf among the sheep. No, the real reason was her. He wanted her, badly, and she welcomed his advances. She also welcomed the opportunity to informally audition as he claimed to have a big job in the entertainment industry. She knew it was most likely bullshit; that the words "business proposition" were usually code for "let's fuck"; that for every righteous proposal, there were a million lewd and lascivious ones; but still there was a chance...

There are a million beautiful girls in New York, maneuvering, she thought. I need to be in there swimming with them even if there are sharks around.

She leaned forward for a welcoming kiss, but he playfully avoided her face and shook her hand instead. That surprised her. Yes, this date had been billed as business, but here she was in five-inch heels and a party dress that hung just two inches below her thong. What gives? Was he just playing the part or was this really about an opportunity?

She had expected that the evening would be a progression of increasingly more intimate touching--a light kiss, an arm around her waist, his hand "accidentally" brushing her breast, and later he would find a reason to rest his hand on her bare thigh and suggest a drink at his hotel. She knew the drill and it was okay. She was ready to fuck him for some consideration...or not. More than ready, she wanted it.

"I see the limo arrived," he said. "You look absolutely gorgeous, good enough to eat."

"Maybe later," she answered suggestively.

He ignored the comment and lifted her hand for another once-over. She stiffened, slightly uncomfortable. It was as if he was buying a new car.

"Is it okay?" she asked lightly, implying that he was interested in her dress.

"Gorgeous," he repeated then gestured that they should go inside.

Carly turned automatically towards the bar to wait for their table. He took her arm.

"Let's sit," he said, "our table's ready." She detected the arrogance of privilege in his tone. People like him didn't wait at the bar for a table.

They followed the maître d' to a quiet corner in the back. He ordered their drinks and then spent half-an-hour on small talk, asking about her day, her journey uptown, the wet dreary weather, its impact on behavior, the Manhattan dining scene.... She was comfortable and confident with this script having been on what seemed like a million dates since coming to New York.

He paused, apparently ready to shift gears. Carly waited in anticipation, knowing that they were now into the meat of the evening.

"Carly, do you mind if I get quickly to business? I usually have more time, but unfortunately I've got to travel tonight and I want to give you as much time as you need to ask questions."

She smiled and nodded eagerly. There was no hint of her deep disappointment.

We aren't going to fuck...? She asked herself. What kind of man wouldn't delay his business to fuck me? Could it be possible that he's gay?

"As you know," he began, "I represent a very large...entertainment company. It's actually much larger than any of the common names, but it's privately held so not as well known."

She raised her eyebrows.

"We provide special services to a very exclusive audience."

She leaned forward in anticipation. He really did have business to discuss.

"You are incredibly beautiful. You are also a uniquely gifted dancer, highly intelligent, ambitious, adventurous.... Our file on you reads like a Miss Universe contestant."

"Our file...?" He has a file on me!

He put his hand over hers in an intimate, but still business-like way.

"I personally fought hard to get you this opportunity. I hope you will give it some real consideration."

He paused again, more dramatically.

"The role we're offering pays three point six million dollars for a three year contract."

She stiffened then slipped her hand from his. Suddenly things were very wrong.

"How much?" she asked, hoping she had misheard.

"Three point six million dollars for a three year contract...a hundred thousand dollars a month for three years," he repeated slowly.

She studied his face. He seemed serious.

"What kind of entertainment?" she asked sadly.

People paid this much money only for one thing.

"Does it matter?" he answered softly. "The offer is real. It's an acting job. We sincerely admire your talent, your ability to perform on a stage, your presence. We will sign a legally binding contract that protects you in all respects. This is no joke, no scam. When the...the gig is over, you will be set up for life, able to pursue a more conventional dancing career if you like. And you won't need to work two jobs to make ends meet."

"What kind of entertainment?" she asked again.

He smiled and nodded.

"Okay, I can see that you don't want any of this sugar coated. I should have suspected as much...someone of your character."

He took a deep breath.

"The part we have requires full nudity, BDSM performance art, and sexually intimate acts of all the standard kinds. The venue is an isolated location outside the United States."

He continued on quickly.

"We guarantee that you will not be subjected to disease, injury, or any kind of marking or piercing and we can prove it with unassailable documentary evidence. We also promise that you will be legally and physically able to terminate the contract any time with no questions asked."

A tear formed in her eye. Even though she had been skeptical, she had hoped that he would at least be kind. Peter, her knight in a five-thousand dollar Barney's suit, was turning out to be just another street pimp.

"I hate this fucking city," she murmured savagely under her breath.

"Why would anyone pay that much money for kinky sex, Peter?" she asked with barely concealed rage. "There are incredibly beautiful and willing women all over the internet. Most of them will do anything you ask for a tiny fraction of that amount. Why did you think I would find this offer interesting? Do I look like a whore?"

She was losing it quickly, more quickly than he anticipated.

"We don't want a whore, Carly," he replied easily as if he had been through this scene a thousand times. "We want a genuine personality, an intelligent young woman, with spunk and spirit; someone with a real talent, who holds herself in great value; someone who can spark a romantic interest in our guests or at least kindle some genuine human feeling. Believe me, although our guests expect sex, it is a very small part of what we're about."

He continued quickly, wanting to get all the words on the table.

"This is why we pay so much. We want someone of quality who is willing to give up a few years for a lifetime of financial freedom."

Carly remained silent for a few seconds then tried to smile.

"No thank you, Peter. I'm not interested."

She wasn't mad. With her incredible looks, she got at least one wild proposition a week. She just thought he was different.

"Just think about it, Carly," he replied.

"I know you were expecting something else tonight, but I'm confident that when you think about this unemotionally, you'll see that it's an incredible opportunity. Everything I've told you is the absolute truth and I can prove it.

"Is it so bad to trade a few years for a lifetime of financial security? Wouldn't we effectively be sponsoring your dream?"

He slipped his business card into her purse.

"Call me anytime."

She shook her head in disbelief.

"I'm not sure what I did to give you the idea that I would ever consider this, Peter, but whatever it was I'm sorry. I'm going to make it here, in the real world, as a dancer. I don't need to become a sex worker to pay the bills. My final answer is 'fuck you' and please don't call me again."

It was a speech demanded by pride.

She pushed her chair back carefully and walked away.

Prescott smiled as he watched her long legs weave their way through the tables.

She's in, he decided...definitely.

***

The nightmare started the next day.

First, she was laid off from her job at the bar. "Not enough business," they said.

The next week, her check to the Evita Dance School bounced. It was a bank error, but by the time they corrected it, her spot in the class had been taken. She had been on the waiting list for Evita's for almost a year.

The following week, she failed an audition for a minor part that she'd been told was a lock. Her friend, who had lined it up, wouldn't return her calls.

The day after, her sub-let was rented. She had three weeks to vacate.

It was an avalanche of bad news. Depressed, she spent her days job hunting and her evenings sponging off prospective suitors. Neither activity was proving very fruitful.

Each gloomy day she would glance at Peter's card thrown carelessly on her bureau. It was engraved in gold letters on parchment. Who the fuck has an engraved business card? She asked herself. It was a ridiculously ostentatious display of money. It was...

She asked herself why she didn't just throw it away. After a few days, she played with the idea of what she would do with a few million dollars. A few days after that, she wondered what the harm would be in hearing them out.

A soft-spoke man answered her call.

Thirty seconds later, an attorney named Kurt Engle was on the phone asking if he could stop by to discuss ideas. He was charming. Twenty minutes after that, he was sitting in her one chair, briefcase open on his lap, while she listened barefooted on the bed.

"There's no obligation you understand, Miss Madison," he said. "This is just a preliminary discussion to familiarize you with the terms of the offer."

She made coffee and they talked for hours. He made the entire sordid proposal seem...routine. She knew it was anything but routine and that she was being gently railroaded, but he was handsome and flattering and, what the hell, she had nothing better to do.

That afternoon, just for fun, she hired her own attorney to review the contract. He assured her that everything was legal and legitimate.

"I can review the words and register the contract for you," he explained, "but your best guarantee is the reputation of the people involved. The Singaporean corporation behind this contract is one of the largest holding companies in the world. No one knows what they are worth, but it's a lot. You can rest assured that what they say they will deliver, they will deliver."

She was actually happy when he handed her an eight-hundred dollar bill for the hour. "It's contingent on you accepting the assignment," he said. "If you decide against, send me a fifty bucks." It was a crystal clear statement of what the contract was worth.

Kurt called as soon as she walked back into her apartment.

"Can we just finish filling out the contract, Carly?" he asked. "It would help me a lot. You know, with follow up reports, management reviews, that kind of thing." They were on a first-name basis now. "This way you'll have the final document in your hands while you're thinking."

It sounded reasonable and for the second time that day, they sat together in her apartment.

Saying no to him was going to be hard after all this, she thought.

"Are you ready to make a decision now?" Kurt asked casually.

"No...I'm not, Kurt," she answered apologetically. "Everything's happened so quickly. I need more time to think."

She was feeling incredibly stupid wasting his time.

He looked at her and smiled understandingly.

"Take all the time you need, Carly. It's a big decision. There's a lot of money involved. You should be totally comfortable with whatever you decide."

She was prepared to resist a sales pitch, one didn't survive in New York without a certain toughness in business matters, but his answer just made her feel sillier.

Who pays three point six million dollars for a piece of ass, even mine? She asked herself.

Suddenly she grabbed the pen from his hand and signed the paper.

Kurt looked at her with surprise and admiration.

"Would you be willing to do that again in front of a notary?" he asked laughing. "My driver is one. Can I ask him to come up?"

Carly laughed as well and nodded, feeling even more foolish.

He called the driver then put his hand over hers.

"It's kind of like the Marines," he said gently. "No one ever regrets joining once it's over."

She nodded and tried to smile.

The driver negotiated the five floors in thirty seconds and arrived out of breath with his notary stamp in hand.

"The first month's payment of a hundred thousand will be in your account tomorrow morning," Kurt said. "You might want to consult an investment advisor. I have a young friend who can help. Leaving this much money in a checking account is probably not the best idea.

Carly nodded and he wrote out a name and number.

"Someone will come to escort you to the site before the end of the month," he said. "They'll use the codeword 'butterfly.' You'll just need to follow their instructions. Okay?"

She nodded, wondering why they needed a codeword and why someone needed to come for her. An airplane ticket seemed a lot easier.

"Mr. Prescott will meet with you when you arrive to explain the details," Kurt continued.

"Will I be able to...," Carly started to ask.

He held his hand.

"That's all I can tell you, Carly," he said kindly. "Rules...you know."

"Spend your time getting your affairs in order," he suggested. "And don't forget, do exactly what they say when they come."

She nodded, hoping he might ask her out to dinner. Instead, he shook hands quickly and left. It was almost as if he was now afraid to become too familiar.