Madame B - Seduction

When we finally got back to our own cabin, we saw the dawn break over the calm water through our window. Utterly exhausted and satisfied beyond any experience, I curled up in my naked lover's arms and smiled as I drifted off to sleep.

I'm always fascinated by women who take crazy risks just for the hell of it. Like Nicole. She's a professional woman who gets her kicks shoplifting things she doesn't really need from exclusive department stores. This is the story of the day she took one risk too many-and found herself in a situation far beyond her control. Enjoy. I love beautiful things: clothes, makeup, jewelry. Sometimes, I even pay for them. But my favorite trinkets-the ones I treasure most of all-are the ones I get by stealth, not wealth. I'm an expert shoplifter. I've been doing it for years. I can outsmart the security systems in most major department stores. It's not just about getting something for nothing; I'm addicted to the risk. I live for the thrill I get when I march out of those doors, past those big burly security guards with a thirty-dollar lipstick tucked in my sleeve. The more guards or the more cameras that are trained on me, the bigger the buzz when I get away with it. And when I walk out into the street, the release of tension and the blood pounding in my ears, it's the nearest thing you can get to an orgasm. I'm a danger junkie. I'm crazy, I know, but I'm good at it. I've only been caught once.

Oh, yes, the time I got caught I was in my favorite haunt, an old department store in the middle of town. It's an impressive building, with an interior dominated by a gilded spiral staircase. The luxurious beauty counter stocks face creams that cost a day's pay for some people, often more.

I browsed the store for a while, looking for something to take my fancy. In the end, I chose a sleek designer lipstick. I even tried it out in the mirror before I committed myself to stealing it. It was a lovely color, rose pink with a soft sheen. Even under the shop counter's harsh lighting, I could tell that it turned my average pair of lips into a pair of petals, plump and velvety. And so the second the salesgirl turned around to talk to another customer, I slid it up the top of my sleeve with a sleight of hand that would put most TV magicians to shame.

As I made my way to the huge double doors my heart was pounding, the way it does when you're about to kiss someone for the first time. The metallic casing of the lipstick was clinically cold against the hot, fast pulse that raced on the inside of my wrist. I raised my hand to push the heavy door open.

And that's when I felt it: the hand on my shoulder. My blood ran cold. It sounds crazy, but I had never prepared myself for this eventuality. I didn't believe I'd ever actually get caught. I froze. I couldn't see the hand but I felt a presence, a huge bulk of a man towering behind me. A man this big would be strong, too. No point in trying to run. It would only make things worse for me.

I turned around slowly, got ready to flutter my eyelashes at the security guard, hoping that I could flirt my way out of it. I found myself eye-level with his chest, a great solid wall of upper body. A blue shirt strained to contain a vast torso, short sleeves displayed strong, wide arms dusted with thick, dark hair. And above the collar, a stern, unsmiling face that didn't look like it was about to be melted by my little-girl-lost act.

"Madame, would you like to come with me?" he said in a rough, gravelly voice. He phrased it as a question but there was no doubt that it was an order. He placed his hand lightly on my arm, not quite restraining me. His thick fingers could probably crush my arm if he wanted. I had no choice but to follow as he led me through a side door (Why had I never noticed it before? Usually too focused on a successful getaway, I guess.) and up a narrow steel staircase.

"Where are we going?" I said, and then, to cover myself, "I don't know what I'm supposed to have done."

He stayed silent, conserving his breath as we mounted the steep flight of stairs. I had to catch my breath but my gasps were barely audible above the pounding of my heart in my ears. I felt scared and guilty and angry with myself but the adrenaline junkie in me was also rather excited. Finally, I was experiencing something even more thrilling and shocking than the act of stealing itself.

The guard maintained his silence as he unlocked a wooden door and led me into a tiny room. He locked the door behind him, putting the key in his pocket, effectively making me his prisoner. I looked around the cell-sized room. There was a desk, a chair and about thirty TV screens, each showing a different part of the store. There was also a tiny window at about eye level from which you could see the entire shop floor. I was astonished. With CCTV this good, I was surprised they hadn't caught me months ago. I was so surprised that I forgot to be frightened.

"Oh, look!" I said brightly. "You can see the makeup counter from here!"

I turned around, but he wasn't smiling. The room was so small that there wasn't much space between us. Close up, I could detect a clean, soapy smell that masked an undertone of something more dark, feral and masculine. I noticed that he hadn't shaved for a few days, and that there was a small scar on his chin which made a bare patch in the stubble. I've always found men with scars irresistible. They make a man look tough and powerful-which, by contrast, makes me feel vulnerable and ultra-feminine. In other circumstances, I'd have found this guy extremely attractive.

"I've got something else to show you," he said, hazel eyes stern beneath a furrowed brow, and he slid a tape into a VCR machine. At first, it was nothing special-just a series of shots of the shop interior. Then I saw someone I recognized: dark hair and a black leather jacket, suspiciously large red handbag-oh, God, it was me!

I watched in horror as the camera captured me sliding a blue g-string and matching bra into my bag. Then the video cut to another film, another day-hotter, because I wore no jacket, but I had the same oversized bag. This time I watched myself casually drop a sixty-five-dollar bottle of shampoo into my bag before leaving via the main doors. After that I was shown another film of me stealing a clingy white dress and then another showing me taking some expensive perfume. And another. And another. All the little crimes I thought I'd gotten away with had been taped. He had enough evidence here to put me in prison. This wasn't going to be just a little slap on the wrist. My job-my apartment-my life-suddenly I realized exactly how much I'd put in jeopardy to feed my habit for cheap thrills.

"I don't understand," I said, and this time when I looked at him the tears brimming in my eyes were real. "Why have you been holding on to all this? What are you going to do with it? Why arrest me today?"

"Today was different," he said, matter-of-factly. "I like the way your tits look in that top, so I thought, today will be the day that I fuck her."

"What?" I stammered. I stood there for a second, unsure I'd heard right (but knew I had).

"I've been watching you for months," he said, moving closer to me. I took a step back, but there was nowhere to go. My back was against the door as he continued speaking. "The first time I saw you, I thought, she's an impudent little bitch, that one, and arrogant. Thinks she'll never get caught. But then you bent down to look at something, and I got a look at your ass in your tight jeans, and I thought, I'd rather fuck her than arrest her. I knew you'd be back. I've come across your type before. Posh girls like you, stealing for kicks always think you can get away with it. So I waited. And I recorded you. Every time I see you coming in I get hard, thinking about how one day I'm going to take you up here and what I'm going to do to you."