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Prey
Eden Bradley
Chapter One
What the hell is happening to me?
Rough hands pull me from my pallet on the floor, and before my eyes can adjust to the dark room, a hood is drawn over my head.
Fuck.
I take a breath to calm my hammering heart as two people grab me by my upper arms and pull me completely off the floor, carrying me unceremoniously through The Training House, where I am currently in service while my beloved Mistress Clara is traveling.
It’s okay. You know where you are.
With the hood over my head and my feet unable to touch the floor, I’m a bit disoriented—which I know is the point of these abduction scenes. It’s the mindfuck they love, our Masters and Mistresses and their well-trained Handlers. And frankly, it’s something many of the slaves adore, too. But the anxiety I’ve dealt with most of my life does not allow me to revel in this twisted little ritual, even though I’ve been through it before.
Mindfuck extraordinaire with a side of pure panic.
I focus on the sound of their boot heels clicking on the polished wood floors, and I know that sound. I draw in as deep a breath as I can through the heavy fabric of the hood, taking in the expensive scents of beautifully polished wood—I’ve polished these floors myself on hands and knees—and a hint of the fine scotch the Masters of the House prefer.
Familiar.
I know this drill. Probably Jasper and Curtis, the two Handlers Master Christopher often refers to as “the goons”, taking me back to the Primal Ranch. I’ve been there before, know what to expect.
But then the sound of their boots changes, and I realize they’re taking me through the marble foyer.
Their hands grip my arms so hard I may be left with bruises—although I don’t bruise easily anymore. I’ve been a contracted slave for far too long. None of us who have been in these elite circles mark easily. Rough handling is something I’m used to. Something I crave.
But something feels off about this.
They carry me down the front stairs, and the cool San Francisco fog whispers against my naked skin. But don’t they normally take us down the back stairs inside the House? The ones that lead to the garage? Why risk the front stairs, even if it is the middle of the night?
My heart begins to pound once more. And again, I ask myself the question.
What the hell is happening to me?
There’s barely time to think about it as I am dumped into the back of the van—at least, I assume it’s the van, the one I know. The metal floor beneath me is cold and hard. Familiar.
“Get her chained up,” a deep, unfamiliar voice says.
Unfamiliar.
I’m really in a panic now.
Do they simply have a new Handler? Or are these people not part of the exotic and profoundly extreme realm of kink I know? And if not, who are they?
Another man makes a low grunt, then the steel shackle is clamped around my ankle. The clanking of the chain is almost soothing.
Almost.
Doors slam and the engine starts, and I am too alone in the van, naked, in chains, being driven away from the relative safety of The Training House, where my Mistress left me to be beaten and fucked and ruined again and again. Everything was just as it should be.
I rely on that—the known expectation. Even the exorbitantly creative punishments. The Masters are always thinking of something new to torture us with, but even then, it’s a known quantity. And the constant unknown is what I escaped into this life from. It’s why I’m here.
Where am I now, though?
I’ve been driven the route to the Primal Ranch from The Training House before, but I’m too much in a state of alarm to know if we’ve gone the right way.
