Claimed & Controlled: (Biker MC BBW Erotica) by Kirsten Paige Page A

journalists who interviewed often invited him on their show in the hopes of making him squirm, as they often loved to do with other politicians, but my father never let them. He got on air and then he raved and cajoled until the interviewer was an quivering mess. My father wasn't one to be manipulated.
 
    This is how I knew I was in dangerous territory. My father once said to me when I was little, in all seriousness, "Honey, if you ever get taken by anyone I ain't spending money on a ransom to get you back. I'm telling you that now in case it ever happens to you. Don’t be under any illusions.” I wasn't his little girl anymore, I was a grown woman who'd just finished college, and there was no way his stance would have changed over the years.
 
    I heard the boss walk to the other end of the room. He opened something, closed it again, and then walked back to where he'd been. I heard a twist and then something fizzed, and then there was the sound of him taking a big swig of a drink.
 
    I couldn't see anything through the stocking but somehow I knew he was looking at me. Suddenly I regretted what I was wearing. I had been on a fun night out drinking with my friends when the bikers has kidnapped me, and we'd all tried to dress as slutty as we were able to. I had gone all out and I wore a miniskirt that reached high up past my thighs and a top that was practically just a bra.
 
    It was exaggeration for effect, of course. As a woman I was as sheltered as they came. My father had made sure that I never, ever got up to anything I shouldn't, because if I was caught doing something then it would look badly on him and hurt his political career. As a result of that I’d never done drugs or anything like that, and the most alcohol I ever drank was a couple of wines at a party. I’d also had nothing but the most basic, vanilla sex. Sure, my friends told me how great sex could be, but I had absolutely no idea. To me, sex meant a guy climbing on top of you while you waited for him to finish.
 
    I heard footsteps as the boss walked, and soon I could sense he was stood in front of me. Under the darkness of the stocking I couldn’t quite see him but I formed the mental impression that he was a pretty bulky guy, with thick arms and legs and a moustache that twisted across his upper lip. I guessed that he would have a tattoo; one about his bike or maybe gun and a rose, the kind that every tough guy biker had. All this was guesswork obviously; I couldn't see anything at all. All I knew about him was that he rode a motorcycle – he had strapped me to the seat when they kidnapped me - and that he liked to take college girls.
 
    "You okay doll face?" he asked.
 
    Something about the way he spoke to me made me believe that he had an actual interest in how I was doing. Despite the circumstances under which he’d brought me here there was obviously a human side to him, a gentle side that was genuinely concerned about my welfare as well as how much money he was going to make from me. Thank god it had been him who stayed and not the other guy.
 
    I wondered about how I could make the most of this. He evidently wasn't planning to finish me off yet, and the first thing I needed to do was get this goddamn stocking off my head. But how? My big arms and legs were strapped to the chair, and I didn’t think he'd uncover me if I just asked him nicely.
 
    Then I had a solution.
 
    I started to make a weird choking sound, as though I were struggling to breathe. I grunted in a strange way like I imagined someone asphyxiating would sound. In my head it seemed stupid, but I could tell it was having the effect I wanted it to.
 
    "Hey, honey, what's wrong with you? What the hell's that sound?"
 
    I carried on my act. I was no thespian but I could put on a pretty good performance when I needed to, because I'd been doing it all my adult life. My friends, my family and my father all thought I was this too-good-to-be-true innocent girl and for