by Monica James
I’m lost in the foreign sights when the hatch opens. Peering toward it, I instantly shrink back when I see Kazimir walk down the stairs. The moment he sees me, his eyes narrow, and the hair at the back of my neck stands on end.
He isn’t wearing his ski mask, so I can see the angry, egg-sized lump on the side of his temple—the one I put there. “We docking now. You stay here.”
I open my mouth, about to protest, but he stalks forward.
“Just in case you get any ideas.”
I have no idea what he means until he makes his intentions crystal clear. He stops in front of me, sizing me up. The waves of fury can be felt rolling off him, and just when I’m about to back away, he slaps my cheek—hard. I instantly taste blood.
Cupping my cheek as I turn my face away from him, stunned pants leave me as my brain tries to come to terms with this asshole laying his hands on me. “Stay,” he spits, addressing me like a dog.
Every fiber of my body is demanding I retaliate, but I don’t. This is his payback.
When he reaches out and violently grips my hair, yanking my head back, I cry out because he’s hurting me. He leans forward and runs his nose along the column of my neck, sniffing. “We not done, you fucking bitch.”
His promise scares me, but he eventually lets me go.
I scamper away from him, drawing my knees to my chest, tears welling. My fear is like an aphrodisiac because he reaches down and rubs over the bulge in his pants. I feel sick.
“See you and that sweet pink pussy soon.” He licks his fat bottom lip while I whimper softly. He leaves me cowering, only breathing again when the hatch closes, and it sounds like it’s bolted shut.
The need to flee is even more imperative because Kazimir is out for blood.
I jolt forward as the boat hits the port, taking my mind off his ominous promise. This is the first time in seven days I’ve seen land, and I’m stuck in here. I watch as Kazimir jumps from the yacht and ties it to a large white cleat.
Saint surely would have removed his ski mask, but he remains out of sight as he no doubt knows I will be watching. I wait for him to come to get me, but after ten minutes, it’s clear that isn’t the case.
Groaning, I lift my hair from the back of my neck and hold it atop my head as it’s awfully stuffy and I’m annoyed. Sweat trickles down the length of my spine, but I focus on my surroundings, mesmerized by this foreign sight. They’re speaking in Arabic, I think, but it sounds different.
Placing my hand on the window, I try to tune in to the vibrations offered by this new world as a contagious buzz fills the air. The vendors hold up gigantic fish as they try to convince potential customers to take a closer look at their goods.
Kids run along the dock eating round golden dough balls, the syrup sticking to their fingers as they lick them clean. I have no idea what they are, but my stomach instantly growls.
Their laughter and the cheerful calls of the merchants are a nice thing to see, considering I’ve been surrounded by nothing but despair for so long.
When a street vendor with a portable cart stops in front of me, I crane my neck to see what he sells. It seems he has sunglasses, umbrellas, souvenirs. A one-stop shop. And when he unravels a blue linen scarf, he reveals just how versatile he truly is. We’re in Egypt, according to the shawl, and the gimmicky pyramid keepsakes and mummy mementos confirm this.
Holy shit.
Saint said he has business here. I wonder of what nature? I doubt he’s here to sample the local produce.
The young vendor sets up a small radio, playing some 80s pop song as he drinks a bottle of Coke. If he’s here, surely that means he’s expecting tourists to arrive soon. The locals aren’t interested, but the gullible vacationers would be.
A surge of excitement overcomes me, and I bang on the window, screaming hysterically at the top of my lungs. “Help!” I shout, thumping my open palm against the glass. But he doesn’t hear me, thanks to Madonna blaring over the speakers.
Jumping down from the bench seat, I run up the stairs and attempt to open the hatch, but I almost smash my head into the hard wood because it doesn’t move an inch. It’s locked, which is no surprise.
“No!” I scream, forcing it with my shoulder as I work the handle frantically. It’s useless. It doesn’t budge.
Running down the stairs, I search the room, desperate to find something I can pry the lock open with. Or something I can use to smash through the hatch. When my search comes up empty, I sprint to the bathroom window, attempting to open the latch. But it’s locked as well.
I push at it with all my might, banging on it and working the handle desperately, but it doesn’t budge. “Goddammit!”
Refusing to give up, my feet slide along the flooring as I grab the saucepan and don’t think twice as I throw it at the window, bracing for it to break as I turn my back. When I don’t hear a shatter, I look over my shoulder, only to see the saucepan sitting in a sad heap on the floor. It bounced off the glass—the shatterproof glass it appears.
Breathless, I slide down the wall, tears welling. No wonder Saint had no qualms leaving me down here, unbound. The freedom is more of an imprisonment than being cuffed because I can look out at something that is just out of reach.
“Help,” I whimper in barely a whisper, defeated.
I religiously watch the hands on the clock, and when a half an hour ticks over, I hear the unmissable voices of enthusiastic tourists, speaking English. The street vendor’s music loudens as he calls for the visitors to come look at his goods.
Beaten, I commence a slow crawl toward the window, clambering onto the seat and peering out the window. The mixture of T-shirts and hats reveals these travelers are from all over the globe. There are only about twelve people, as this part of Egypt is clearly not as popular as other parts, but it still draws the curious explorer or two.
I place my open palm to the window, begging someone sees me, begging to be rescued, but it never happens. All I can do is watch them laugh happily, sampling the local foods, oblivious to my situation because down here, I’m hidden, forgotten to the world.
An hour passes, and the street vendor begins to pack up his loot. He’s done for the day. The tourists are long gone, but sadly, I’m not. Here I kneel, peering out into a world I was once a part of. When the air turns still and the 80s pop vanishes, I sink down and crumple into a heap.
That was a wasted opportunity, and I don’t know how many more I’ll get. Saint said we would be here for a few days. That we’re going to dock to change boats. But I can only imagine that will be done under the veil of night because here, I stand out like dog’s balls.
I’m trying not to be disheartened, but that is impossible. And when the hatch clicks and opens, and I hear heavy footsteps, I realize I’m about to face the epitome of impossible.
I turn on my side, refusing to look at him. That doesn’t deter him, however.
“I got you something to eat.” I hear a thud onto the table.
His heavy sigh is my victory, but I remain unmoving. A static crackles, hinting shit is about to get real.
Before I know what’s happening, the seat suddenly depresses, the air is ripped from my lungs, and I’m flipped onto my stomach as Saint throws me over his lap. I’m lying stretched out with him under me. He’s so damn smooth, I don’t even know how he maneuvers me this way like I weigh nothing at all.
I don’t bother fighting him, but instead, I turn my cheek, looking away.
“You know,” he starts, two simple words filled with such wicked promised, “I can make you talk.”
A shudder passes through me because I have no doubt he can. I’m clueless to what he’s about to do because the last time we were this way, he spanked me. The memory smashes into me, and I bite my tongue to prevent any verbal response.
When the material of my dress slowly glides up my legs, I measure my breaths, but my heart begins to race. He stops just at the small of my back. I exhale, but it’s in vain because what he does next has my cheeks b
ursting into flames.
He leisurely lowers my innocent white underwear to expose my ass. I close my eyes, humiliated, which is exactly the response he wants.
He hums low while I remain unresponsive. However, when I hear what sounds like a jar being opened and feel a cool cream being applied to my ass cheeks, I jolt, dismayed. I’m about to tell him what a sick, perverted creep he is until the soothing scents of myrrh, lavender, and tea tree catch the air. Then a cooling sensation against my tender flesh follows.
Helpless to resist and also a tad confused, I instantly relax and allow Saint to surprisingly tend to my wounds. It feels absolutely wonderful as the burn to my skin fades. He gently massages my ass, applying just the right pressure to make what he’s doing feel so good.
He lifts the hem of my dress and exposes my back, where he applies more ointment. By the time he gets to my shoulder blades, I’m almost drooling. His strong fingers dig into my tender muscles, kneading out the stiffness. Over the past seven days, my poor shoulders have suffered such abuse.
My breasts are still covered, but being this way is so intimate. I’ve never had a man touch me like this. Not even Drew. But with Saint, it almost is effortless.
Once he finishes massaging my back, he detours to my ass once again, gripping my cheeks in both hands and squeezing softly to ensure every inch is slathered in cream. A contented sigh betrays my pleasure, but I’m too relaxed to care or question why he’s being so nice.
His heavy breaths are hypnotic and lull me into a sleepy bubble. I must look ridiculous with my ass poised high, covered in whatever balm he’s applying. It doesn’t even seem like having me half-naked on his lap has affected him, which is a good thing, I remind myself. This is all methodical for him, seeing as he can’t deliver damaged goods.
He scoops more cream into his hands and pays attention to my legs. He works my inner thighs, never drifting too close to my sex, which I’m thankful for. Once I’m slathered in the ointment, he puts the lid back onto the container and gently pulls my underwear back up.
When he lowers my dress, a small, insolent part of me is disappointed. But I’m quick to dispel such thoughts. I’m so relaxed, I feel like an overcooked piece of spaghetti.
“You see, it doesn’t have to be all unpleasant between us. I can be kind too.” His honeyed voice is smooth, and I hate myself because I want to hear it again.
My wish is granted, but what he says next confirms his kindness comes with strings. “Will you behave?”
His thoughtfulness is because he wants something from me. It wasn’t done out of the kindness of his heart, which is my error, forgetting he doesn’t have one. But this act proves otherwise. Doesn’t it?
“Aнгел?” He waits for me to reply, but he’ll be waiting for a long time to come.
A string of profanity severs the serenity as he slides out from under me. I lounge on my stomach with no intention of moving or replying.
“I promise…you will talk.”
He leaves me with that oath as he marches up the stairs and slams the hatch shut. A smile spreads from cheek to cheek because for once, Saint knows how it feels to be used.
Once Saint left, I fell into a deep slumber, exhaustion creeping up on me. For once, my body didn’t ache, thanks to Saint, which is ironic, considering he’s the reason I was sore in the first place.
I was too drained to even try to comprehend why he helped me. His hot and cold behavior leaves me confused because I don’t know which version of Saint I’ll get whenever he walks down those stairs.
Kazimir frightens me because, without a doubt, he will ensure I pay for what I did to him, but Saint scares me in a different way. I’m not fearful for my life when I’m with him. I’m fearful for my soul. I hate myself because each time he’s near, I crave more—more of his voice, his touches, more of him. I want to know the man beneath the mask.
My body’s response to him is…curiosity. I’ve never met a man like him before. He takes what he wants and commands control. In no way am I attracted to him, I mean, I’ve never even seen his face, and there is a little thing that he kidnapped me, but I can’t deny he makes me feel something…I just don’t know what that something is.
However, when the hatch opens, and the unmistakable sound of a woman’s moans travels down the stairs, I’m soon to identify what that something is.
It’s pitch black down here as the moon has gone into hiding, and there are no lights close by, but I see and hear enough to understand what is currently taking place before my eyes. My immediate reaction is to turn away, but there’s a reason he’s down here, parading his new prize. And I intend to find out what it is.
I shrink into the shadows, but Saint knows I’m awake, watching him as he comes tumbling down the stairs with some strange woman. I know it’s him by the broad width of his shoulders and his menacing height. A strangled gasp gets caught in my throat, and I strain my eyes. There must be some mistake. But as I perch on the end of the seat and dig my fists into my eyes to ensure I’m not seeing things, I see it…he’s not wearing his ski mask.
I can’t make out any distinguishing features, but when the moon peeks its head out from behind the darkness, it highlights strands of messy dark hair. It looks wild and untamed, just long enough to tie back. The long tresses are thick and full of volume. He looks like he just tumbled from bed.
When he slams his eager lover against the wall, I flinch, wishing I’d chosen another analogy.
Once again, the moon takes cover, but her impassioned moans fill in the blanks. His back faces me while she writhes against the wall, speaking to him in Arabic. I’m taken aback when he replies in her native tongue.
I feel obscene bearing witness to something so personal, but this is just so…foreign. Sure, I’ve watched the occasional porn clip, who hasn’t, but seeing this in real life is utterly captivating. Drew went down on me, and I returned the favor, but this is something else. The way her moans intensify like she’s about to explode has me inching forward, desperate for a closer look.
All I can make out are shadows, so I rely on my ears to fill in the blanks. When I hear a garment being shred, it’s apparent things are about to get messy. Her bracelets jingle as I presume she undoes his pants because a second later, I hear a zipper being unfastened and the crinkle of a wrapper.
“Fuck me,” she hums.
I grip the leather beneath me, my fingernails almost tearing through the material. I don’t know what’s come over me, but I suddenly want to rip out her tongue. My heart begins to race, and I’m covered in a light sheen of perspiration. What’s wrong with me?
Her impatient sighs deepen, and the sound does something to me which it should not. I feel myself growing wet between the legs because I feel like a secret voyager, privy to the most intimate act between two people. I am ashamed and disgusted, but I can deal with that later because when a guttural cry penetrates the air, I know Saint has hit home.
The rough slapping of flesh soon follows as the woman howls in delight, mumbling words in a language I don’t understand. What I do understand however is Saint hissing as I see a sharp tug of his head. “No kissing.”
Relief swarms me because to me, a kiss is more sacred, and in some sick way, it pleases me that he won’t kiss her. But he certainly has no qualms fucking her. I hate referring to the act in such a way, but the untamed sounds of flesh sliding together and the banging against the wall hints that this is exactly that.
Fucking. And fucking hard.
Even though I can’t see a whole lot, tears sting my eyes because I suddenly feel so dirty. Why did he bring her down here? Her honeysuckle perfume will forever mar these walls as will the cry of her coming loudly as Saint drives into her violently.
Once again, so many emotions flood me, but this time, I can’t help the jealousy that rises. I don’t even know why I’m jealous. I suppose I miss the connection with another human being. But deep down, in a secret place, the truth floats just below the surface.
I’m jealous
because I want to know what it feels like. If what Saint says is true, then I will be losing my virginity to a monster. If I’ve been sold, there is only one reason. Is that why Saint brought her down here? To show me what’s headed my way?
God only knows what perverse things that man will subject me to. Is Saint once again showing me kindness by being cruel?
I can’t stand to hear anymore, so I lower myself onto the lounge and lie on my side, covering my ears. When the vibrations stop, I know he’s done.
My cheeks are damp with tears as I suddenly feel so betrayed. After he tended so kindly to me today, I thought that maybe he wasn’t all bad. But here he is, lying post-coitus with some random woman.
This room may be my prison, but it’s mine.
“I promise…you will talk.”
His parting words today echo loudly, and I succumb, just as I always do, which is exactly why he did what he did. This is once again a lesson.
“Make her leave,” I whisper, heavy with despair. I can’t stand to have her here.
I’m not even sure if he heard me, but when I hear him utter something in Arabic, I know that he did.
“You’re not serious?” she wails, clearly horror-struck there won’t be any snuggling.
“Get out,” Saint replies, in case she is lost in translation.
The woman turns banshee as she shrieks in Arabic, but I tune it out. Before the hatch closes, however, what I hear confuses me even more so. “You could only come when you looked at her…so fuck her next time!”
I tremble violently, curling myself into a ball, afraid and so perturbed. What does she mean? He could only come when he looked at me? Why? He doesn’t even like me as every chance he gets, he’s hurting me…like right now.
“Good night, Aнгел.”
And I reply the only way I can.
“Good night…мастер.”
This fearless creature utterly fascinates me. She is far braver than anyone I’ve ever met, and I find myself wanting to know more about her. My methods have never failed me in the past. I am Popov’s best. So why can’t I break her the way I want to? And why can I only find satisfaction when she’s near? This obsession of mine must end.
