Comfort Food (7 page)

I don’t know why I still hid the marks. I knew he watched me and had probably at some point caught me doing it. But he’d ignored it. He didn’t seem to care about my crude calendar. I repeated the date over and over again in my head because it was important for me to know what day I was on.

When I slept that night I dreamed of the good cell, bubble baths and music, rows and rows of books and CDs, blush pink nail polish, and fuzzy slippers. And I dreamed of him. His eyes boring through me, seeing all my secrets, his hands on my body, and his voice whispering in my ear.

When I woke up, I was bleeding.

FIVE

In the master bathroom of what I had come to call
the good cell
, in the cabinet had been tampons and pads. Both. I hadn’t thought anything about it at the time. If I was going to rebel and potentially fail, I should have thought about it and picked another date.

Now I was stuck in a bare cell bleeding like a stuck pig. It was disgusting. Still, he didn’t change the routine. Whenever he opened the door I begged him for something. All he had to do was go down the hall to the bathroom and get it, but he didn’t acknowledge my request. Instead, he let me bathe twice a day.

Finally, I stripped off my clothes and went about the cell naked. I knew he did it just to punish me. Feminine protection in his book was a luxury not a necessity.

I spent a lot of time in the corner thinking, trying to analyze my captor. I wondered what his background was. Surely he had to understand psychology at least a little to be able to do this. Maybe he was some type of quite literally mad scientist, using me as a study in behavioral conditioning.

That’s the thing about conditioning. You can know it’s happening all you want; it doesn’t change the results. Eventually you break, reduced to something less than human. I felt like an animal as I crouched in the cell, blood dried on my leg. I felt wild.

I reacted like an animal. I found I listened for every little sound, watched every movement he made. I read body language and communicated through touch more than I had in my entire life. I spoke to him, mostly when I was scared, begging. But I hadn’t spoken any words of substance in over three weeks.

He opened the door again and brought in my food. It was the first meal since I’d decided to hell with clothing. I wondered if he would be repulsed by it, if he was the type of man who was deeply disturbed by a woman’s natural cycle. But he seemed neutral on the matter.

I spoke then, not my normal begging or pleading, but something more meaningful. I wanted to fight this degradation of communication and not forget how to talk.

“Are you a scientist?” My voice sounded strange to me when it came out at a normal volume and pitch, not through tears or panic.

He had been on his way out the door when he turned sharply toward me, his face shocked. It seemed to unbalance him that I would bring up casual conversation at a time like this.

It made me bolder. In my time as his prisoner, not once had I ruffled him even the tiniest bit. He’d expected everything I’d done, found it amusing and predictable, and now I had done something he found surprising. A part of me was afraid I was digging my hole deeper, but another, much larger part believed I might buy myself reprieve from my punishment if he found me sufficiently interesting. So I kept talking.

“You aren’t shocked by anything I do, except maybe this. So I wondered if you’d studied it. I studied it in college. I was originally going to be a psychologist specializing in research, like this, only . . . more ethical.”

His lips quirked up in the least disturbing smile I’d witnessed on him so far. Still, he didn’t speak to me. But he didn’t leave me alone either. He sat on the ground a few feet away, watching and waiting for me to continue.

I wrinkled my nose at the soup and crackers he’d put before me. God, I wanted the real food again. I’d do anything for a steak and a baked potato. I crumbled the crackers in and started to eat. I wanted to touch him, wanted him to touch me, but I knew if I made any move toward him, he’d leave again.

“Instead, I ended up getting my degree and writing self-help books of all things. But then you probably know that.” A pause. “Why did you take me?”

No answer.

“Do you hate women?”

No answer.

I took another bite.

“If you talk to me, I’ll still do whatever you want. I’ll still let you touch me.”

His eyes darkened; I’d crossed the line. He stood and went for the door.

“Wait. Please. I’m sorry. I won’t ask for anything. I know you have your reasons, okay?”

He turned and nodded at me once, then sat beside the door. The distance he’d put between us wasn’t lost on me. I took a deep breath and then a few more bites, chasing it down with water. He wasn’t leaving, and so I felt brave enough to ask what had been on my mind for awhile now. Getting my period had reminded me of more than just basic survival, but biological realities.

“Are you going to kill me if I get pregnant?”

No answer.

My voice shook a little as I spoke. I wasn’t crying, but there were tears in my voice, that catch you get when you start to get emotional but are holding back the floodgates.

“ . . . Because I know you can’t just take me to the hospital. And I don’t know if you have anyone you can bring in . . . or if you would even want me then. Please, I don’t want to die. I was on the pill before. The prescription is in my purse. You can put me back on it . . . ”

He shook his head.

I took another bite, and more water to try to calm down so I could talk without going into blubbering sobbing fits. “No? You
want
me to get pregnant?”

He shook his head again.

“Are you sterile?” God, I hoped so. These were genes you didn’t want to spread. I didn’t want to give birth to another sociopath.

His eyes were cold as he stared at me. As far as he was concerned, the question and answer portion of the day was over. But I could see in his eyes I’d figured out the truth, and I felt relief wash over me. One less thing to worry about.

I finished my food without speaking again as he watched me. I didn’t know what else to say. I wasn’t sure what more he could take from me, but I knew he’d think of something if I pushed too hard. As it was, I wasn’t sure if I’d be in the cell longer now because of speaking.

When I finished eating, he took the tray and brushed my hair out of my face with his fingers. I leaned into him. I was ready to do anything he wanted, just to let me out.

The cell was bad because there was nothing to do, but it was worse because it meant I had been bad. I’d displeased him, and that was starting to matter to me. I’d fought the desire to please him, but I couldn’t help it. I knew what he was doing to me, but it didn’t change how I felt, how I longed for him to touch me.

“Please, take me out of here,” I whispered, as he ran his fingers through my hair. “Please.”

I stood, and he kissed me. I moved my arms around his neck, but he gently took my wrists and moved them down by my sides. Then the kiss was over and he was leaving again. He turned away, and I felt the panic bubbling over.

I’d made no progress. I’d just been a diversion, but it wouldn’t affect anything. What if he never forgave me for trying to kill him? What if he never let me out of the cell?

“No . . . please don’t leave me. I’ll be your whore. I’ll be whatever you want, please.”

I heard him punch in the combination code and then the click of freedom I couldn’t have, and he opened the door. He turned and smiled at me, the smile of victory. Then he let the door shut softly behind him.

Several days passed, the bleeding stopped, and I was still in the cell marking off the days. He’d supplied me with clothing again and my bathing supplies, but I chose to remain naked. I wasn’t sure if this was considered disobedience, but I was counting on his self-control slipping, that at some point he wouldn’t be able to stand not taking what was bare to his gaze.

But if it fazed him, he composed himself before entering my cell. He brought my food and bath stuff, looking at me, but nothing more.

On the seventh day I expected it to be over. I’d done my time, surely he would touch me again. I would let him, and then I would be rewarded and get to go back to the good cell. The room where I was favored. But day seven came and went without him making any move toward me.

I hadn’t built up the nerve to talk to him again since that one day. I was too afraid to change the routine. I wasn’t sure exactly what sins had mounted against me and if speaking was one of them.

I needed touch, comfort, something. I was losing my tenuous grip on sanity, on reality. Everything felt fuzzy, and sometimes I wasn’t sure if I was awake or asleep. I prayed it was a nightmare, and I’d wake up back in the good cell again. I’d stopped dreaming of escape because every part of me knew it wasn’t possible. My subconscious mind chose to spare me the torment of dangling carrots I couldn’t eat.

Instead I dreamed of the good cell, something I had some hope still of achieving. As the days slipped onward, I began to doubt I would ever get to go back there. Maybe what I’d done was so bad he could never forgive it.

I’d hoped being in the cell naked would entice him to come to me, that he wouldn’t be able to resist taking what he considered his. But nudity alone wasn’t cutting it. In an act of sheer desperation, I laid on my back in the middle of the room so every camera saw me. I spread my legs and touched myself. I didn’t know if the cameras had sound attached, and I wasn’t sure if I was moaning for his benefit or because I couldn’t help it.

It had been more than a week since I’d had an orgasm. In the short time I’d been in the good cell, he’d brought me to release so many times it made my head spin with it. Now as I stroked myself, I realized how much I missed the pleasure he gave me.

I was in the middle of possibly my third orgasm when the door came crashing open. Everything inside me said to stop. Run. I had no idea where I would run to, but instincts usually operate on the run principle.

Instead, I boldly met his eyes, my fingers slipping inside my pussy, daring him to respond in any way. I didn’t care how. He could fuck me or beat me. Any touch, any response from him would be welcome. But he stood there, his black eyes penetrating me, refusing to give me even anger in a physical manifestation.

He slammed the door behind him, and I stopped and moved to the corner. My heart was beating practically out of my chest, as slow dread started to creep over me. I’d wanted a reaction but now I was terrified I’d gotten one. I didn’t need him out of control and angry.

My desperation had made me stupid. Minutes ticked by like months, and then finally the door clicked open again. He brought in the things for me to bathe, and clothing. When he left it was the first time in longer than I could remember that I was relieved he hadn’t touched me.

I bathed quickly and put on the clothes. As I picked up the shirt, a book fell out. I backed away from it like it was poison. Was it a trick? I knew I didn’t get nice things in the cell. Or was it like the bandages? I didn’t know which was the correct thing to do, ignore the book or read it.

I slipped the sweatpants on and buttoned up the white top while staring at the new variable. The fabric felt weird against my skin after walking around so many days without clothing. Clothes made me feel like a person, and as a person I couldn’t deal with what I’d become. If I remained a naked animal, it was better, easier. But he was finished making my life easy.

After circling the book a few more times, I picked it up and moved back to my corner. The corner was the only spot that held comfort because I knew if I was there, there was a chance he’d open the door and come for me.

I blushed, recognizing the book’s title as something I’d read once in a much different time and place. I cracked the spine and started reading, knowing the contents would arouse me despite everything, but also knowing that if I didn’t read, I might never achieve absolution from my captor.

It didn’t take many pages before I noticed the first place a highlighter had been used over the text. The word
master
glared back at me in bright sunshine yellow. At the next instance of the word, it was highlighted again. I flipped through the book to see hundreds of bright yellow rectangles. He’d probably stayed up an entire night doing it. Or spent days on the project, hacking away at it chunks at a time.

It was a book I’d once read and gotten off on, and I still got off on it, only now, it was true. A true story about me. Reading it made me ache to touch myself again, but I didn’t. I knew he must be watching, and I didn’t want to be caught again. I’d been in the bad cell for two weeks. Much longer and I wasn’t going to be able to hold onto any of my sanity.

The book was a slim volume, something that could be read in a few hours if you didn’t dog-ear the pages and stop to masturbate. Within minutes of finishing it, I heard the key code being depressed on the other side and the door opening. He hadn’t come with food, though I was hungry, and for a minute my pulse pounded at the idea that he might be there to take me back to the other room.

He approached me and stopped a few steps away from where I stood waiting in my corner. I moved my hands up to the buttons of the white artist’s smock. He shook his head at me, and I let my hands fall to my sides.

He started to leave. What the hell did he want?

“Please . . . don’t leave me here.”

Normally he turned at least to look at me, but this time he didn’t acknowledge my voice. Instead, he punched the numbers into the keypad. I wasn’t ever getting out of there.

Then I knew what he wanted from me. It would be obvious to any thinking person.

There was a time when it would have been difficult, if not impossible for me to say the words, but I was desperate and I hadn’t lied when I’d said I would be anything he wanted me to be.

“Master, please.”

He’d gotten as far as opening the door, and he stopped, letting it fall back and latch shut. Then he turned toward me, a slow smile spreading over his face. Yes. That was what he wanted. I was getting out.