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I was his wife or girlfriend. He was rich––something obviously true beyond my fantasy life. He paid for everything while I did what wives and girlfriends of rich men did, pampered myself. I could pretend I’d given consent, that we had a relationship.
I wasn’t sure if the music in the other room had gone off on its own or if he’d turned it off, but suddenly the only sound in the room was the water bubbling furiously around me, and my own ragged breath, part from arousal, part from fear.
He crossed to the tub and turned off the jets, and once again the room was cloaked in silence. I watched him cautiously as he got into the tub with me, disturbing the private sanctum I’d created because I’d created it with things that belonged to him.
The thought flitted through my mind that in some sense I belonged to him. I’d sold myself for pretty things, though at the time I had thought my price was much lower, since all I’d wanted was for anything to happen but him to leave me alone. For someone to communicate with me some way. Any way.
.. . He slipped his hands underneath the water to caress her skin and she let him. She knew she would either be his prisoner in a bare cell, or in here, these three rooms where she could pretend everything was okay.
His dark eyes drank her in as he pulled the drain on the tub. It took several minutes to drain out and while it did, he stroked her underneath the surface of the water. He dipped his fingers inside her and she found herself arching into his touch, grinding against his hand, begging for the contact that would get her off.
The water swirled away, leaving a mass of leftover bubbles. He rubbed her clit in light circles as she gripped his shoulders and whimpered against him.
“Please . . . ” she said. She was sure she was begging him to stop, to not do this to her, let her keep her soul. But her body kept moving up to meet his touch, and some dark part of her feared she was begging him never to stop. Wetness pooled between her legs as the last of the water drained out and his hand started grinding harder against her while she panted.
He was beautiful, and he smelled good. He made her body hum with pleasure, and he gave her everything. She didn’t have to worry about the things others did: bills, jobs, social pressure. All she had to worry about was pleasing him.
She couldn’t decide if she wished he would speak to her. On the one hand, if he chose to speak, his words could be cruel and demanding and her fantasy would be shattered. With only her soft sighs and whimpers as a background track, it was easier to pretend.
He ran his tongue over her belly and up between her breasts before latching onto one nipple. His grip dug almost painfully into her hip as he fucked her harder with the fingers of his other hand. He didn’t let her come. Instead, he took her just to the edge, that maddening place when you’ll do nearly anything to achieve release, when you are beyond the capability to reason.
He lifted her out of the tub and carried her back to the other room while she clutched at him, panting into the warm soft hollow where his neck met his shoulder. He set her down on her feet and wiped the bubbles from her body with one of the towels. Then, while she was still half crazed by the lust he’d created in her, he gently, but forcefully pushed her down to her knees.
The room seemed to narrow. It was suddenly too small, cramped, and claustrophobic. She wanted to scoot away, but he’d linked their hands in a mockery of love and he held her in place, patiently waiting.
He could take the fantasy away at any moment. All he had to do was yell at her, or physically hurt her, push her down and rip through her without regard for what tore or bled. But he didn’t.
“Please . . . don’t . . . ” She looked up at him, wanting to find humanity somewhere buried inside his eyes, something to back up the almost civilized way he’d behaved with her. But he just watched her, and waited, knowing his lack of words took all of hers away.
She couldn’t bargain with him, and so she bargained with herself instead. If she did what he wanted, things would go easier for her.
Her mouth latched around him and she sucked. He released her hands to run his own gently through her hair. Caressing, reassuring, comforting.
She’d had a boyfriend a few years before who had taught her how to deep throat. It wasn’t a wasted tutelage because his breathing was getting heavier and louder. Then he came. He used one hand to massage her throat and help her swallow.
She wanted to die, but he wouldn’t let her. He lifted her off the floor and laid her out over the bed. Then he held her wrists against her thighs and returned the favor.
Her eyes drifted shut and she pretended it was her boyfriend, back when she was practically a child and he’d held her down to make her orgasm. She thought about all the nights after when she’d masturbated and made herself come to that memory. And she writhed against the tongue of her captor and came again . . .
He let goof my wrists and went to the closet. I laid there, not daring to close my legs, trembling. He picked out another pair of designer jeans, and a black baby doll crop top and laid them on the bed, then he left me alone.
My hands shook as I put the clothes on. I didn’t bother with a bra or panties, I just wanted to be covered, and I thought he probably preferred me without underwear. I hated myself for taking that into consideration even for a moment.
I was thirsty, but he’d thought of that. I hadn’t noticed it when he’d carried me into the bedroom, but he’d brought me a large bowl of fruit: grapes, blueberries, strawberries, mandarin oranges, and pineapples. Sitting next to it on the side table was a bottle of water.
He was setting it up so he didn’t cause me pain; I caused it. I caused it by rebelling. All I had to do was give in, submit in mind and body and I would never be hurt again. He’d see to my every need and give me the best of everything. He’d be better in bed than most men who take women willingly. He said it with everything he did, every touch, every caress, every physical pleasure he bestowed upon me.Give it all to me. Give me your will.
And that was when I knew. I had to kill him.
FOUR
Iwas falling too far, losing bits and pieces of my mind. If I didn’t escape soon, I knew I wouldn’t be able to. In the other cell there was no hope because there were no weapons. Now, I found myself surrounded with them. Not traditional weapons, of course, like guns and knives, but makeshift weapons that would do the trick.
Suddenly everything my eyes touched held a dark purpose. Shower curtain? Strangle him. Pen? Jab him in the throat. Lamp? Knock him out. I cataloged at least fifteen different ways to incapacitate him and then still more creative ways to finish the deed.
I couldn’t let him live. He knew too much about me. He could hurt my family or friends, use them to lure me back. No, he’d signed his death warrant by taking me and even more so by giving me the tools with which to end him. He wasn’t as smart as he thought. If he were, he never would have put me in the nice cell so soon, when I had some small piece inside me that was actually still me.
I’ve always been a squeamish person. The tiniest drop of blood freaks me out. It was the thing that had held me back. Besides my fear of not succeeding and being hurt or tortured to death for my crime, I was too squeamish.
