Comfort Food

by Kitty Thomas

  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.

  ***

  . . . 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 drai
n 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. The fingers of his hand 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 said. 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 go of 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

  I was 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.

  Before, if I'd succeeded in killing him, I'd have to know the combination, then pop out an eye at the very least to get through the security. The fear of starving in a cell with a corpse had stopped me cold.

  There were no pinhole cameras in the ceiling here. He must have thought I wasn't a danger anymore. He must have thought lack of dancing meant he'd broken me completely, that I was so desperate for his touch I would gladly stay in my pretty crate like a good dog.

  He was wrong. I waited though, formulating my plan, calculating. I didn't want him to suspect, so I let the new routine settle in for a few days. I ate the fantastic food he brought me; I spread my legs for him, let him do what he wanted. I read and took bubble baths and painted my nails and tried on outfits.

  I pretended I was okay. I was docile, submissive, pleasing. My eyes lit up when he entered the room, and I eagerly did whatever he guided me to do. Thankfully his tastes weren't too exotic. I'd gotten through the first times, and nothing had changed. I could handle it until I could make my move.

  It got to a point where my acting became almost too good. I leaned into his kisses just a touch too eagerly, sighed a little too deeply when he brought me off with his mouth or fingers. I was falling for my own seduction. So it was now or never, while my desire for freedom and escape still meant something to me.

  I still understood his touch wasn't the only touch in the world, and the pretty things he lavished me with weren't the only things in existence. There was still a world outside that room. So the fourth day in the new cell, the first day clouds darkened the window so the sunlight couldn't stream through, I was standing by the door, waiting to kill him.

  I intended to kill him and run for my life, in case any other dragons guarded the castle. I had a pen and a sock in my pocket, and the heaviest table lamp in the room held in my hands in a death grip.

  The lamp normally sat on the desk beneath the window, so his eyes wouldn't find it missing in time to stop me. I stood, tense, waiting. I'd decided his mistake was conforming too closely to a routine. He always brought my breakfast at nine am, according to the clock on the desk.
It was no trouble at all for me to be standing crouched by the door at 8:55.

  I knew I had exactly one shot at this. My intention was to hit him the second the door opened. Then if he fell forward into the room I could use the sock to keep the door from sealing shut, jab the pen in his throat to finish him off, and run for it.

  The keypad clicked to life on the other side of the door. When people have these moments they believe are big, they often speak of time standing still, how it dragged on forever in slow motion. But for me it didn't drag. It was so fast I almost missed it. The door swung open and I pounced.

  There was no time to be precise. The fraction of a second I took to aim, would be all it would take for him to stop me. I wasted no energy on that; I just swung out. His hand gripped my wrist so hard I knew if he twisted just slightly he could break it.

  That was it. My big escape plan. And it was over before it even started. I searched frantically for something, anything to use as a weapon. It couldn't be over this quickly.

  There had to be a way to beat him. He couldn't have shut off all my routes of escape. Criminals always made a mistake. Didn't they? Maybe his mistakes would never make a difference to me one way or the other. My sole source of help might be some random stranger noticing something shifty about this guy and following him.

  I released the lamp finally, and it crashed to the floor. My eyes met his and instead of the anger I expected, they held disappointment.

  Something inside me died.

  If I didn't get out now I would lose myself entirely to the beautiful monster in front of me. I dug into my pants and pulled out the pen. He still stood partially in the doorway. If I could get past him before he stepped the rest of the way into the room, I could still escape.