Just Until Morning
Chelsea never saw it coming.
One minute she was walking across the dimly lit parking lot of the U of T campus. The sun was setting into the night sky and most of the cars had cleared out of the lot already. She just finished her final exam and would be a free woman for a few weeks. With her head buried in her phone, she was going to text her Friday night date.
She wanted to find out what restaurant they were going to so she could match her outfit to the vibe.
I swear to God, this fuckboy better not flop on me.
She was hoping to FINALLY get laid—she'd been studying for months to pass these exams, and she was so looking forward to this date. He might have been a fuckboy, but whatever, a date is a date and a fuck is a fuck, right?
Right?
Then she heard hushed voices. Male. A foreign language. They were close. She picked up her pace as her hand reached for the pepper spray that was hanging from a keychain on her knapsack.
But the next minute something sharp was against her back. A cloth pressed firmly over her mouth. She tried to scream but only muffled sounds came out. The smell of something sweet—chloroform, maybe?
She fumbled with her phone to try and call 911.
Then, came the darkness.
X X X
When she finally came to, her body was shivering. Her mind was alert before her body could catch up. The back of her skull pulsed like it wanted to split in two. She sat up slowly, winced and groaned.
Is it morning?
She tried to blink the blurriness away. It reeked of fresh paint. Her hands found her eyes and she rubbed. The coolness of her fingertips felt nice on her tired eyes. She scanned the room. There was one long and narrow window, high up on the wall across from her. The place seemed industrial. Clean, but cold. Sterile, even. Two large steel doors stood on the opposite end of the room. The space was barely furnished—the bed she was on with a small nightstand next to it. Across the room was a simple wooden couch that had a flannel pattern on the cushions, a matching old wing chair, and a small wooden coffee table. No clock. No pictures. There was a faint hint of morning light creeping in through the window. It seemed as though someone tried to make the space feel cozy. The sheets beneath her were crisp. The room was quiet, except for a low, steady hummm in the background.
Her hands instinctively reached for her phone—but of course, it wasn't there. She scanned the room again. Her bag, jacket, everything—gone.
She heard it then. A voice. Low and deep. Male. On the phone, speaking another language. Russian, maybe? Polish? She couldn't tell. The voice was getting closer. Was he just outside the door? He spoke for a few minutes. Then… silence.
Chelsea held her breath.
Click. The door creaked open. Slowly.
She scrambled backwards on the bed, heart thumping in her chest. Her head hit the metal wall, sending another jolt of pain through her skull. She held the blanket up to her neck as though it would offer some protection.
A man stepped inside. Not very tall—but solid. Broad chest, arms thick with muscle. He wore a faded black tee and black jeans. His face was unreadable—intense with dark eyes. He had short dark hair with a little bit of stubble. Mid-40s, maybe. Maybe older. And that voice. That deep voice.
Their eyes met and for a moment Chelsea thought he looked familiar. She searched his face, his eyes.
"I am sorry, Chelsea," he said, accent heavy but smooth. "I hope your headache is not too bad, dear."
Her heart raced faster. "Who are you? Where am I? How do you know my name?!"
He stepped forward, holding out a glass of water and a small white pill. "This will help. Just Tylenol. Drink. You will be fine. You are safe with me."
"Who the fuck are you? What do you want? Is this about my father? Is it money? I swear to God, if you just give me my phone, I'll call him—he'll give you whatever you want."
"Yes," he replied calmly. "It is about money. But no phone calls. Not necessary. Everything will be taken care of. Soon. You will see. You will go back to your normal life unharmed. I promise you, child."
He placed the water and pill on the nightstand… and left. The door locked behind him.
She was alone again in the silence of this large room.
Then, a bang so loud it jolted her upright. The whole steel frame of the building shook with its force.
X X X
Chelsea stood up and walked towards the door. But the man did not return. "Hello?" "What was that?" Her voice echoed in the room until it faded to quiet.
More silence.
Hours had passed. Chelsea tried to keep her thoughts busy. She dozed in and out of sleep as she watched the light cast its way across the room. But she was growing restless.
And her mind kept circling back to…not fear, but frustration, perhaps. She'd been studying nonstop for weeks, grinding through exams with one golden ticket at the end of the tunnel: her Friday night date. Her distraction. Her reward.
Now? Now I'm locked in this weird-ass room with not so much as a ball of yarn to keep me fucking entertained.
What the actual fuck? Ugggh.
She let herself fall onto the bed and her back sunk into the soft mattress. The pain in her head still throbbed but only slightly now. The Tylenol was working.
She took in a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. "Figures. This is just my luck."
Her mind drifted. Where would they have gone for dinner? She never did see his reply.
Would he have tried to slide his hand up my thigh and under my dress before the meal even arrived? Could I be so bold and tease him under the table with people all around me? Would he be able to tell how nervous I was?
I don't think we would have made it to dessert without sneaking to the bathroom first. This fuckboy had a reputation for not wasting time. Which is exactly why she agreed to this date in the first place.
He's not even my type. Ugh.
She allowed her hands to wander. Slowly. Gently. They found her breasts. Over her dress, she squeezed. One, then the other. She undid a few of the top buttons. Her nipples so hard, they were poking through her thin white bra. With her left thumb toying her right nipple, she rubbed herself over her dress. Still wearing her outfit from the night before.
Not even a change of fucking clothes.
Her hand slid up under the dress. Her white cotton panties were already damp. Her lips, plump and craving attention. She slid her panties to the side to get a better feel and then, her fingers met a soft mound of hair. She realized she hadn't even shaved for her date. A full bush under her palm. She ran her fingers through it and teased at her entrance, now slick with her own excitement. Gently parting her lips, she spread herself with a long, slow stroke.
She tried to imagine her date—the boy who should have been here. But her mind had other plans for her.
What the fuck, Chelsea—why are you thinking of him?
It was her captor. Those strong arms. The broad chest. That deep, melting voice. She imagined him. Rough with her. Telling her he just HAD to have her. "Chelsea, you're not leaving here without me having you." She imagined that she tried to fight back. Tried to push him away. But he was too strong. Her panties—ripped and tossed to the floor. His belt, undone. He walked up to her. Slowly. Looking her over with hungry eyes. With each step he took towards her, she took one step back. Until she hit the wall.
And he undid his zipper.
He had her pinned. Her legs wrapped around his waist. Nothing between them, but bare skin. She could feel him—hard, pressing up against her. His breath hot on her ear. Rough kisses down her neck. He tried to kiss her but she turned her head.
A low growl.
Then his hand, guiding himself, finding her opening. Warm. Wet.
"You want this, don't you?" as he slipped inside.
Chelsea moaned.
She toyed at her lips, just barely slipping a finger inside as she imagined him entering her.
A finger slipped in. Then a second. Her pace quickened as she imagined him thrusting into her. Her back still up against the wall. Him holding her up, legs suspended in the air, her body rocking with each thrust. His breath, ragged in her ear. She imagined him—rough, relentless—his thick cock stretching her open, owning her.
Completely.
Her breath caught as her fingers moved faster. Chelsea started moaning. She didn't realize how loud she was being—
When the door creaked open again...
She froze.
X X X
The man stepped in with a tray of food. Noticing her—exposed and vulnerable—his eyes quickly darted away, as Chelsea scrambled to cover herself with the blankets.
He cleared his throat.
"Excuse me, dear," his voice lower. "I've made some food for you," he said, staring at the tray. He placed it on the coffee table in the center of the room and left without another word.
The sound of Chelsea's heavy breathing filled the room.
As did the smell of warm stew and fresh bread. Her stomach growled. She didn't realize just how hungry she was. There was a bowl of what looked like beef stew, brown gravy, chunks of carrots. Chelsea ate every bite and then wiped the bowl clean with the fresh bread. He even buttered it.
She glanced around the large room, this place isn't so bad afterall. Hot foreigner. Warm meal. Comfy bed. Ah, Chelsea, you're so fucked up. She laughed.
She was seated in the wing chair, when he returned. Noticing the empty tray, he asked if she enjoyed the meal.
"Oh my God, yes," she said genuinely enthusiastic. "Thank you, Sir." Her fingers lightly grazed his arm as he reached for the tray. "That was really good. I mean it... absolutely delicious."
He flinched, pulling back slightly. But something lingered in his look. Pain. Or maybe sadness. It was gone before she could name it.
"I apologize, Chelsea. Things are taking longer than expected," he said. "Your father received the message last night—this has been confirmed—but he has not responded yet."
Chelsea shook her head. "Yeah... that sounds like my father, alright."
He looked at his watch. "We may need to stay another night. I will try to find more blankets. That bang earlier, that was the furnace. And I won't have it fixed for a few days," he sighed.
"Another night? No fucking way." She was sitting upright in the chair now, fingers digging into the armrests.
"I will need to stay in here, with you. Not ideal, I know. But I must ensure you do not try to escape. But I will also ensure that you are safe. Just until morning."
"Safe? Yeah, okay. Thank you so much, strange man who has me locked in an abandoned warehouse," she said.
He hesitated. Chelsea thought he would try and defend himself, but he just turned to leave.
"Wait," she called after him. Her voice, softer now. "What's your name? What should I call you?"
He stopped. One arm bracing the doorframe. Like he was thinking about his response.
"You have an accent. Is it Russian," she asked. He turned slowly and his eyes met hers. He didn't look much like a big scary captor. As he stood in the doorway, shoulders heavy, he just looked like a defeated man.
He sighed, "that is correct, child."
A smile crept onto one side of her mouth. "Nostrovia!" she said, toasting him in Russian.
His jaw clenched. "We have nothing to celebrate, Chelsea."
"Says you. I'm betting you've got some vodka stashed away somewhere, don't you? I know you must." She leaned forward with a grin. "C'mon. I've been good for months. Studying hard. No social life. I even survived a Goddamn kidnapping." She was smiling. But he was not. "At least let me celebrate a little, if you're keeping me here another night. Please?"
He started to leave.
"I had a date lined up last night, you know? My first one in months. You robbed me of that." She crossed her arms and sunk back into the chair. "I hope you're happy."
The door clicked closed.
Fucker.
About ten minutes later he returned. He was wearing grey sweats and a faded grey shirt. She had been laying on the couch and shot upright when she heard the door. Hoping to find him with a bottle of vodka, but he just placed a bowl of fruit down on the table and handed her some folded clothes. He told her there were fresh towels and any toiletries she might need in the bathroom.
God help me. How the fuck am I going to make it through the night with him looking like that? Forget Greek God, this right here is pure Russian steel.
She took the clothes from him and headed to the bathroom. It was even colder in here. The bathroom was well stocked though, and she was impressed that he had both a soft and medium bristle toothbrush laid out.
Does anyone even use medium bristles anymore?
She took her time in the bathroom. It felt good to freshen up although she didn't think she could wear his oversized joggers to bed. She was swimming in them. As she brushed her teeth, her mind drifted.
What the fuck was my father taking so long for. He really doesn't give two shits about me. I don't know why this always surprises me. I should know better than to think any differently of him. She sighed.
Then she was back in the parking lot. Texting fuckboy. She wondered what their night would have been like. Would he even be wondering what happened to her. I've been so fucking M.I.A. lately probably no one even knows that I'm missing.
A bang at the door jolted her back to the cold confinement of the bathroom. "Everything okay in there, Chelsea" he asked. "Did you need anything else?"
"Ya, some freedom would be nice. Fuck. Can you give me a minute?"
She slipped into the shirt he gave her. It didn't look so bad on her, after all. But the joggers—there is no chance in hell I would be caught dead in those.
The metal door closed with a heavy clang behind her as she returned to her dungeon.
Chelsea scanned his body. He was sitting on the couch, leaning forward—legs apart, elbows on his knees, muscles tense beneath his tee. He looked up, almost startled to see her.
"Where are your pants," he sounded angry.
She noticed two rock glasses and a bottle of Stoli on the coffee table in front of him. The glasses were already half-filled with vodka.
Her eyes lit up and she squealed as she ran to him, nearly diving into his lap to hug him.
His body tensed.
"Settle down," he said in that calm, commanding voice. "Or I take it away."
She quickly pulled back. "Sorry," she said, biting back a grin she couldn't quite contain. "I'll calm down, but I am not wearing your hideous joggers."
She twirled, showing off his oversized tee. "It's just like my dress, but more comfy."
She turned abruptly when she noticed the sound of music coming from the corner of the room. Then she saw it: a small AM/FM radio. "Music and drinks? This is my kind of party."
He shook his head at her. "Sorry," she said. "I'll calm down." She took the chair across from him.
They drank.
They listened to music.
And they talked.
As the hours passed and the room grew dim, the chill in the air seemed to settle into their conversation. Chelsea admitted that her father not immediately sending the ransom money kind of made sense. He'd always said he didn't want children—always accused her mom of getting pregnant on purpose to trap him.
The man sat and listened. He stared down at his glass and swirled, like the motion might distract him from the pain behind her eyes.
They shifted to lighter subjects. They spoke of the weather and argued over who was the bigger Raptors fan. She talked about her robotics studies at U of T—how one day she wanted to revolutionize healthcare through technology. How she wanted to really make a difference in the world.
When YMCA came on the radio she got up to dance. He stared at the floor.
She cracked jokes and he listened.
And then finally—
he smiled.
Only slightly, but it was enough.
"Oh. My. God," she whispered. "I can't believe I didn't notice it before."
She sat upright in her chair.
He stiffened. "What?" he asked, eyes narrowing…
"What is it?"
✦ ✦ ✦