Chapter 1: The Capture

There are people of great merit and talent who live out their lives shunning their true potential. People with high intelligence or stunning beauty who actually hide their natural assets to embrace whatever benefits obscurity can afford them. Liz was one such person. Though adroit in intellect with a seemingly endless knowledge in a wide variety of subjects, she never chose to use her skill to advance herself professionally. Likewise, her very fit and curvaceous figure was obscured by a very drab and inconspicuous wardrobe while her elegantly chiseled face with lovely, wide blue eyes was hidden behind big, horned-rim glasses and loose strands of her thick reddish-brown hair. She was often chided by what little company she kept to step out from behind herself and flaunt her natural gifts, she remained resolutely loyal to her clandestine persona.

Liz left her bland, mundane job that evening with her usual diffident, subdued manner. That was the way she lived her life, very unobtrusive and discreet. She made it quite plain to everyone that she did not want any undue attention and she worked hard to keep it that way. To look at her one would wonder why she worked so hard to be unnoticeable. She was kind, considerate and likable but she kept her circle of close friends small and all of her relationships cordial but detached. In actuality, it was all a cover up. She had another life. A life she worked diligently to keep secret. It was a life that would bring devastating shame upon her if any of the most apparent facts were revealed and absolute danger if the entire truth were known. Regardless, it was a condition that necessitated regular remedy. Tonight she left her job with particular little fanfare to avoid delaying entanglements. Tonight she would not be going directly home.

Liz sought replenishment. Reinvigoration. Rejuvenation. It was a regular semi-monthly ritual she needed to partake in. It was pleasurable for her but involved enduring certain unsavory places and uncomfortable encounters that a lady should not put herself in, no matter how familiar the practice was to her or how dire her need.

When she finished work she drove far from her familiar territory and ventured to an area where she was sure not to meet anyone who might know or recognize her. The place she was going to was not completely new to her, but a place she took extra care in not frequenting twice within any eight-week period. After a fifty-five minute drive she arrived at her destination. The sign in front read ‘Wicked Wanda’s Pleasure Palace’ and beneath it ‘Adult books, Novelties, XXX Arcade’. It was a den for sexually starved and lonely men to exercise their unrequited longing, no place at all for an attractive, young auburn haired woman with a spotless and carefully guarded social reputation. As Liz approached she took notice of the number of cars in the parking lot before pulling into the lot of the abandoned motel on the far side of the book store. She parked her car and turned off the engine. There were not enough cars gathered yet. More important, it was still far too light out and she couldn’t stand the idea of being seen going into that place even if there were no chance of anyone she knew being in the area. The only car on the road was the one that had been behind her which pulled into the book store lot and parked on the far side. She knew more would come when it got dark.

She took the time to get ready and relax before she made her dash to the door. She took a black trench coat from the back seat and pulled around her shoulders and then plunged her arms into both the sleeves. Off came her glasses which she did not really need but had become a habit to wear. She checked the pockets for her essential supplies; a can of pepper spray, an envelope containing a few crisp five dollar bills, a damp wash cloth, and a small wooden wedge. She pulled a black stocking cap over her head and then tucked her long, wavy trusses up into it. Taking a last careful look around, she hiked up her skirt, arched to lift her rump from the car seat and then pushed her pantyhose and panties down past her knees in one swift motion. She kicked off her shoes and pulled the filmy material down and off of both feet, tossing the balled up bunch on the seat beside her.

Now, she would wait for the right time. In the fresh stillness, her mind wandered over the years, over her situation, over her need. She had been to worse places and had done much worse things to satisfy her hunger. She thought back and was amazed at how calloused she had become to all of this, toward all sexual things in general. Her mind finally came to rest on how it all started; how she was then; that night so long ago when her entire life changed.

...

Bess is what she was called then. Her mother had named her Elizabeth, after The Queen, for she was born on her coronation day. She worked as a house servant, a maid, indentured into the house of Lord Cabbot, the county liege and magistrate, to settle her father’s debts. She was a fetching young maiden and she caught the fancy of many a young townsmen as well as traveling merchants.

Her heart had belonged to a strong, handsome young man who had asked for her hand but lacked the money to buy out her servitude. After much discussion and many tears they had settled on his plan to seek his fortune overseas while she waited for him to return and free her.

Every night she walked down to the inn at the crossroads and watched for the arrival of the coach from Brighton; waiting for her love to come home. Every night she waited and every night she went home in bitter disappointment. Weeks passed. Months passed. Years passed and still no word from her love. Many men, young and old, wealthy and more wealthy asked for her hand and to buy out her debt. She would not hear of it. She waited resolutely for her young man to return to her.

As the years passed, her beauty slowly faded until nothing was left but a tired old woman. Likewise, all of her young woman anticipations had crumbled into old woman regrets. None the less, she continued her nightly vigil out of habit more than hope, the thought of forsaking it was maddening to her. She had emptied herself into her expectations and become a ghost haunting her own life. Children laughed at her for a fool. They taunted her and called her The Seaman’s Wife. She laughed at herself. She laughed until she cried. The promise of her youth and beauty had been wasted on a lost dream. Yet, she kept on with her nightly sentry in front of the inn. A victim of her own faith, diligence and love, she became the very portrait of sadness.

It was on that particular, fateful, moonlit night, she was making her way through town on her nightly watch for the coach when she saw a dark cloaked figure standing at the side of the market square. Bess thought it odd to encounter much of anyone in her nightly walk but this one was exceptionally strange. As Bess approached the square the figure turned to face her but did not move in any other way. Bess passed on the opposite side of the road, the figure stood silently, turning slowly to mark Bess’ passage. As Bess walked by she watched the figure. Under the hood, drawn low over the figure’s face, she could see only a dainty feminine chin and a small mouth smiling slightly as if in recognition.

Bess continued on toward the crossroads and tried not to trouble herself about the encounter. She glanced back to again take note of the solitary figure. To her surprise, the woman had quietly crossed the road and was now following. Bess doubled her pace, her mind pouring over what manner of being was behind her and what did she seek. As she reached the crossroads, she turned to look over her shoulder again and saw that the cloaked woman was gaining on her.

As she looked, she noted the woman’s carriage was so smooth and graceful she seemed to float above the ground, and her step was so light she made not a sound. It filled Bess’ heart with dread as the mysterious figure took on specter-like prowess. She hurried herself to a near trot, seeking the light and relative safety of the inn. Her imagination ran wild over the horrors and mystery of the dark. Each step she made became a struggle for her existence, every breath she took she feared to be her last. She broke into a full run, desperate to reach the inn. She felt as though claws and fangs were just inches behind her, ready to snatch away her life.

When she reached the lantern post in front of the inn she grasped it for support and protection and spun around to find the dark, phantom figure a mere 5 paces behind her, hovering in eerie silence amid the dim shadows.

“Who approaches? Speak thy bidding,” blurted Bess, unable to bridle her waxing fear!

The cloak parted. One pale, delicate hand raised in admonition while the other drew back the hood. “Courage, gentle heart,” said the woman in a soft, soothing voice. “I bear thee no malice.” Her manner and diction were that of gentry or at least one who passed among them. The opened cloak revealed a bodice of intricately embroidered silk, trimmed with the finest of French lace. Coils of light golden locks framed the face of a fair, young maiden with skin white as cream and smooth as porcelain, and cheeks glowing in a soft kiss of rose. “I would speak with thee this night,” she continued.