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just wants to make sure you're not armed.  
    All the same, I was covered in goosebumps as I followed his instructions. I assumed the position, knowing exactly what he meant, having seen it done many times in many different circumstances. I wondered why he didn't just ask me to strip. As he'd said himself, he owned me now.
    He stepped very close behind me, one solid boot coming down against my bare foot. So close he almost crushed my pinky toe - but only just grazed it. He was caging me in.  
    I felt his hot breaths on the side of my neck, his hands roaming down my sides, under my breasts, down my stomach and pelvis and then coming back to explore the space between my legs. Just enough to ensure that I wasn't hiding anything. But when his fingers brushed my inner thighs through the fabric, I gasped.
    He ran both hands up and down the length of my legs, crouching down and rising back up, every time. My whole body was thrumming with anticipation - of what? I didn't want him to keep touching me.
    Except that I did.
    A moment later, the bulk of his body was gone. I breathed in, telling myself that what I felt was relief.
    Not disappointment.
    "Kneel," he said.
    I turned around. He was standing with his feet about shoulder-width apart, arms crossed, waiting for something. Oh, God. Was this it? Was this the beginning of my life as a sex slave?
    I knelt down in front of him, looking up at his face. Trying to read his intentions. Was I expected to just know? Would he strike me across the face if I didn't do as he asked, without hesitation, without questions?
    He seemed like the kind of man who might.
    "Boots," he said, finally.
    My shoulders sagged with relief. He didn't want me to suck his cock - just take off his boots. I could do that.
    He doesn't want you to suck his cock yet .
    But he didn't want me. He didn't want me at all. Maybe I'd gotten lucky, and he didn't even like girls.
    You know that's not true. He's looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, but something's stopping him.
    I unlaced his boots, carefully, one by one. The laces were long and took some fiddling, and I could sense he was growing impatient with me. I hurried the process as best I could, pulling them off when they were loosened, setting them aside next to the door. Each one seemed as heavy as a cinderblock.
    Looking up at him for a reaction, I saw something I didn't expect. Disappointment? Desire? Revulsion? It was some deadly cocktail of all three, inspired by a simple act of submission.  
    This man was more complicated than he seemed. If I wanted to survive, I'd have to understand him.
    We were in a sort of living room, with a fire crackling against the far wall. Memories of my branding brought a wave of nausea, but I choked it down, focusing on the man who thought he owned me.
    His eyes never left me, but he didn't say another word. I sensed he was still trying to read me. Figure me out. He seemed just as eager to understand me as I was to understand him - could he possibly perceive me as a threat ?  
    The idea was almost laughable. He had frisked me, but I figured that was just a precaution. Even with a weapon, how could I possibly overpower a man like this? He radiated power and control. Nothing happened, if he didn't will it.
    For the first time, I noticed he had a piece of paper crumpled in his palm. He stalked to the fireplace, threw it in, and abruptly disappeared through another doorway. I heard the sound of him climbing a staircase, and then, nothing.
    Although the sight of the fireplace made my stomach turn, I had to draw closer when I noticed that the letter hadn't quite caught flame. The edges smoldered, and then burnt out. I could still read it.
    Glancing over my shoulder, I reached in and gingerly retrieved the singed paper.

    Tate -  

    As I write this, it's been two days since Daniela. Not a moment goes by that I don't regret what happened. I wish I had seen the signs earlier. I wish I could have saved you that heartache. I know you