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We stand-off against each other in silence. It’s just me against his stony expression, and suddenly, I feel uncomfortable and take a step backwards. I startle when his strong voice breaks the silence in the room.
“I’ve seen your naked body before, but I can’t wait to see it fully unveiled for me. Strip for me now,” he says with a certain commanding tone that sends anxiety and fear coursing through my veins. I don’t reply to him. I give him an almost imperceptible shake of my head, too numb to move or speak.
“I’m about to make you feel things you never knew existed, and I can’t wait to see you writhing under my touch as I give you pleasure,” he arches his brow knowingly, “and with the Blyss running through your system, it will be an indulgence, none like you’ve ever known before.”
He takes a predatory step toward me, and my heart beats faster. I’m very clear in shaking my head no this time, and instinctively, I take another small step back.
“I’m sure in your current state of mind, you’ve thought about the implements behind the curtains, yeah? Would you like to pick something out?”
No, I’d actually like to run and hide behind them. I close my eyes tightly and steal an intake of breath. Well, shit, here we go again with another cat and mouse game. What happened to my warm, sweet, and consoling Travis?
My body is fighting wanting to respond to this type of domination, but my brain is struggling to break through the haze of lust. I feel a small prickle beginning to burn behind my eyes. I don’t want to cry; I’m so sick of crying. He’s beginning to scare me. I chastise myself, He should scare you, Jules! He’s a sex criminal! How did I let myself become this dense?
I don’t know what he has planned, but I’ve never had sex before. With that thought, my breathing picks up, and I’m not sure I can handle this. I find myself in a full-on retreat, but as I look around the room, where can I run? I was talking a good fight only minutes before, but getting down to the nitty-gritty, the reality of this situation is like a splash of ice-cold water in my face, rendering me almost sober from the effects of the drugs.
With nowhere to go, I steel myself against his presence and look him in the eye. “I’m scared, Travis. I’ve never done this before,” I admit as my gaze shifts to the tiled floor. I notice my hands are slightly trembling and I clasp them together, wringing them until my knuckles turn white.
He stops in his tracks and asks warily, “What do you mean you’ve never done this before?”
I can feel the heat seeping up my ears in mortification, not only for admitting my virginity, but also being placed in this simulation of false consent. The drug is making me crave sex, when in actuality, it’s rape. Rape is rape, no matter how you slice it. The Blyss may be making my body yearn for what Travis is going to give, but I don’t want it, not this way. I study the brown marble pattern on the floor mindlessly; this is not how I envisioned my first time. The following words stutter from my mouth, “Don’t you know? I’m…a virgin.” I glance up to gauge his reaction, and every muscle in Travis’ body goes stock-still. I think I’ve shocked him. His lips are pressed in a hard line, his nostrils flare, and he shakes his head. He doesn’t look happy about this; in fact, he looks downright pissed.
“I thought you had a fiancé?” His eyes narrow on mine, his tone somewhat accusatory. I don’t think he’s processing this bit of news very well.
“Yes, well, I was saving myself for that...that special person, that special day,” I say softly.
“Fuck!” he bellows, and I jump back, startled, wide-eyed, and scared out of my wits. I didn’t mean to piss him off, but I needed him to know. When he realizes he’s frightened me, he abruptly drops his bag to the floor with a loud thud. I feel my eyes brimming full of tears as he quickly reaches for me in two long strides. His strong hands cup my cheeks gently, and his thumbs begin tenderly wiping away a few stray tears. His eyes shift over mine with concern as he searches for something within me.
His communication always seems to be in his eyes, because his face always remains impassive. He must have practiced that look for so long it’s permanently etched onto his face. He looks upon me, not with sympathy, but with a look of almost compassion and regret. Is the man bipolar? One minute, he tries to be all commanding and macho, and the next, he’s acting as if my virginity means something special. He’s in the sex trade business, for God’s sake! I feel a tear escape from the corner of my eye.
