Mercy (39 page)

Only in my dreams did I feel anything. I'd started dreaming about him, his hand on my face, feeding me. Even my subconscious mind had turned against me. Instead of dreaming in vivid bright colors and loud noises and vibrant tastes, I had begun to dream about the cell with him inside it.

My desires had shifted from wanting the outside world to just wanting him to come back into my cell and for my punishment to be over. I wanted to prove I could be better. I could obey and do what he wanted.

Finally, on the seventh day he stepped inside. He sat across from me as if nothing had happened, as if we hadn't had a period of non-communication for days, and he started to feed me. When he touched my face, I leaned desperately into his hand. I wanted him to be pleased with me, to know he could trust me now.

When the soup was gone, he took the tray away. I experienced a moment of panic, fearing I'd done something to upset
him, that
he would abandon me for another week, but he returned a couple of minutes later. He approached me and started to undo the buttons of my top. I didn't pull away this time.

***

. . . She didn't resist as he removed first her top, then her sweatpants. She stood naked and shaking, self-conscious. She wanted to cover herself but was afraid if she did he'd punish her again. So she stood there, looking down at the ground as he observed her. She knew he must have watched her on the video monitors while she bathed, had probably stroked himself to the sight of her. And yet, it was different for him to be so close.

He raised her chin so their eyes met, and he smiled at her. He was pleased, and she couldn't help the tiny flush of pleasure that went through her body at that idea. Then his mouth caressed over hers, an echo of everything he'd been from the beginning . . . gentle. As if everything he did, he only did it for
her own
good.
To teach her.

She responded, her mouth hungrily accepting his touch. His hands drifted to her breasts, fondling her. She didn't think of pulling away. Instead, she thought of how she could get closer and pressed her breasts harder into his hands, her body screaming for more contact with his.

He put the blindfold over her eyes and led her to the door. She was terrified of where he was taking her. Were there others in the house? She found she had little to worry about as he took her into another room. The combination keypad went off in a series of nondescript beeps, and then he laid her back on a bed.

She'd forgotten beds, what they were like, what pillows felt like against her flesh, or soft mattresses. She still wore the blindfold as he spread her legs apart, his fingers dipping into her and grinding against her heat. She was wet, so wet for him that she could hear it as his fingers pumped in and out of her in a chaotic rhythm. Then his mouth was on her sex, driving her on until she screamed.

“Yes, please, please don't stop touching me.” Her breathing became erratic as she crested over the wave of her orgasm.
Release, sensation, pleasure after so much nothingness.
Then he was inside her, still gentle, thrusting in a steady soothing rhythm, like the ocean waves beating on the shore. She felt his release and then he pulled out of her . . .

***

I
laid
on the bed panting hard as the door clicked shut. The blindfold he'd used to transport me still covered my eyes. I didn't remove it. I was afraid if I
did,
he'd take me off the soft warm bed and put me back in the cell. I didn't want to go back there. If I had to be his whore to stay out of there, I would do it.

I had the sudden urge to cover myself, but resisted it. I refused to move one inch from where he'd left me. I would move when he allowed me to move and not before. I needed him too much to make him angry with me now.

Maybe half an hour passed before the door opened again, and immediately I could smell food. Not chicken noodle soup.
Real food.
He removed the blindfold.

Complete sensory overload.

There was roasted turkey, dressing, sweet potato casserole, corn, those great fluffy homemade yeast rolls. I dug into it as if I'd been starved, and in some ways I had been. Everything tasted so good, so much better than it normally did when I had these things at Thanksgiving. There was sweetened iced tea and a small plate to the side that had a warm slice of pumpkin pie on it. A can of
Reddi
Whip sat at attention waiting to cover the pie.

I was probably eating like a pig. He didn't seem to care, so I didn't care. He didn't appear to be conditioning me to have proper table etiquette. When he'd been stalking me, he'd probably watched me eat at dozens of functions, and this wasn't how I normally ate, the shovel-in method.

Once I'd convinced myself the food wasn't going anywhere, I slowed down and started to look around the room. The first thing I noticed was sunlight. I had a window! It was bulletproof and shatterproof glass (something I found out later) with bars over it. Still, it was a window. There were light, gauzy curtains to soften the starkness of the bars. The sun was shining, and the sky was blue, and I could see it. I knew what time of day it was, finally.

The room was lush with bright, rich colors, like those from my dreams. Fabrics hung on the walls and draped from the ceiling. It felt like being in a genie's bottle, only much roomier. There were several floor lamps and a few comfy chairs, the kind you could sink into and then have trouble getting out of.

Next to the window was a calendar with the date circled. June 3rd. It had been mid-May when I'd had my last speaking engagement. The room was even larger than the bad cell, and it had almost everything one could think of. There was a CD player and hundreds of CDs. There was an ornate desk and comfortable-looking swivel chair. A beautiful red leather journal sat on the desk with more pens than I could count. There was a clock on the desk that told me it was three-thirty in the afternoon.

One wall was all bookshelves with more books than I could read in a year. Scanning the titles I noticed some of them were old favorites of mine, and others were books I wanted to read but had never found the time. A few were books I'd never heard of but in genres close to the others.

He watched me as I ate and took it all in, then crossed to a small table, lit some incense, and put a CD in the player. Rich classical music filled the room.

The bed I was sitting on was piled high with pillows, and had a gold satin comforter on it that somehow didn't look gaudy.

When I'd finished eating, I cautiously got up. I was aware of and self-conscious of my nudity but I didn't dare try to cover up for fear he'd take everything away again. My feet sank into the softest, thickest carpet I'd ever felt, and I had to physically stop myself from lying on the floor and rolling around on it like a puppy.

On the far end of the room was a large walk-in closet, almost big enough to be its own room. The closet was filled to the brim with gorgeous clothes, all in my size.

“Can I . . . ?” I asked, reaching for a pair of designer jeans and a plum-colored
cami
top.

He nodded and crossed the room to open a dresser drawer to indicate bras and panties, all matching and from a high-end designer. I quickly dressed, trying not to let it upset me that he watched every movement I made. I'd just had sex with him. He'd touched and looked at every inch of my body. Now was a stupid time to be getting modest.

When I was dressed, I padded back to the closet to look at the shoes. There must have been a hundred pairs. I wanted to dive into them and try them all on, but not until I was alone again. Instead, I went through a few boxes until I discovered some silvery wedge sandals and put them on.

He watched me for awhile longer as I went through the room pawing through things, quietly
ooohing
and
aaahing
, momentarily forgetting I was a prisoner in a nicer cell. Then he got up and took the tray and silently went to the door.

“Wait,” I said.

He stopped in the doorway and turned to me, his eyes questioning.

“Won't you speak to me now? Please? I did what you wanted.”
 
I cringed even as I said it. What he wanted had been to break me so utterly that I would beg him to rape me, and I'd followed his plan to perfection.

He placed the tray on the floor and crossed to me. Then taking me in his arms like a lover, he kissed me again on the mouth and left. I don't know what I'd expected. If he'd spoken to me I would have believed I could start bargaining. I could have read him better, dissected him.

If I could communicate with him in any other way besides letting him use my body, would I still so willingly allow him to do what he wanted with me?

After he'd left me to my own devices, I explored the rest of the room. There were two other doors, both without a keypad. I tried the first one, and it clicked open.

There was so much power in that moment. So much that I felt breathless with it. To put my hand on a doorknob and have it click open, to submit to my desire to go through it. It was almost more exciting than what was behind it.

A ballet studio.

The wall was lined with mirrors, though I couldn't bring myself to look too hard at my reflection. There was a closet with leotards and ballet shoes, all in my size. In one corner of the room nearest the door stood an old-fashioned record player and stacks of records, many I recognized from my time dancing.

There was a lot of Tchaikovsky. I thumbed through the records and put one on to play. I did a
tour
jete
and then a
grand battement
. There was a fan in the corner of the room and Degas prints on the walls, perfect for spotting when I did turns across the room. I would definitely use the studio, but I was curious about what was behind door number two.

The same excitement as before hummed through me as I placed my hand over the second doorknob. There was a momentary fear it might be locked, but it clicked in my hand and relented as well.

It was a bathroom, and not just a bathroom. It was The Bathroom. The kind of bathroom you'd find in
Architectural Digest
. There was of course a toilet, sink, and a mirror. I practically ran to the mirror and wished I hadn't. My eyes looked too haunted to be mine.

Where did my soul go? I couldn't see it anymore. In the cabinet were piles of make-up, all in my brands and colors. Surely I could put enough of it on to hide the look in my eyes.

In the center of the bathroom was the king of tubs.
A giant whirlpool, the kind that could double as a hot tub, if not a small swimming pool.
There was a cart next to the tub filled to the brim with
loofahs
and bath gels, body scrubs and bubble baths. Unlit vanilla candles lined the wide brim of the tub and a box of matches sat in a tiny tray on the cart. I could hardly believe I was allowed to take a bath whenever I wanted.
A bath.
I could light the candles and soak in the bubbles, and read as long as I wanted.

A large shower stood in one corner of the bathroom, and next to it there were cabinets with stacks of fluffy bath towels, the kind so large you could wrap them around an elephant. And they all smelled clean and fresh from the dryer. A couple of white terrycloth bathrobes hung from hooks on the wall.

I went to the adjoining room and scanned the bookcase briefly before picking a classic and then running water in the tub. I poured some vanilla bubble bath in and lit the candles. I wanted to do everything at once.
It hadn't occurred to me yet not to be happy.

I hadn't sat and thought about the fact that I should want out, not better accommodations. I was still his prisoner, still completely at his mercy and whims. He could take it all away at any second and put me back in that bare cell, that limbo. But I refused to think about any of that. Instead, I sank into the tub and turned the jets on and began to read.

I was in the middle of the third chapter when he entered the bathroom. I didn't hear the door click open; I'd been so engrossed in that other magic place you go to in books. I dog-eared the page and closed the book, letting it fall to the floor and looked up at him.

The jets from the tub had made more bubbles, a false covering for the modesty I'd recovered after an hour in my new cell. He stood in the doorway naked and more beautiful than he had any right to be considering the circumstances. Since we were in the bathroom, and not in the bedroom where there was a keypad on the door and bars on the window, I could pretend things were normal.

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 CD 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.