Comfort Food

by Kitty Thomas

  He retrieved the blindfold again and she scooted back.

  Her voice cracked, “Are you taking me back to the cell?” If he took her back there and left her to rot after this . . .

  He shook his head. She crawled back to him so he could tie the piece of fabric over her eyes . . .

  ***

  When the blindfold came off, I was in the nice room again.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  I couldn't stop saying it. It was a mindless litany now. I turned in his arms and my mouth found the hollow of his throat, and I kissed him.

  He left me then. When he returned, I was stretched out on the bed, the pillows propped underneath me, watching for the door to open again. He rolled in a cart laden with barbeque chicken, corn on the cob, fresh green beans, cole slaw, rolls, a salad, iced tea.

  He sat across from me and fed me. It was the first time in a long time. I let him, leaning into his touch each time he stopped to stroke my breast. I no longer saw this as what I had to give him in order to eat. Now it was reward.

  Anything that wasn't the bad cell was a reward. In less than six weeks he'd turned me into this. I hated the part of me that was so weak I couldn't hold out longer, that I'd sell my soul for him to touch me and not leave me alone.

  Wouldn't any sane woman be grateful to just be left alone? What was wrong with me that being kept in that cell without his presence was the worst thing he could do to me? Far worse than being his fuck toy.

  I'd convinced myself it would have been different if he'd been as ugly on the outside as he was on the inside, but he wasn't. He was cruel beauty, a sculpture, a god, and I couldn't tear my eyes from him. I'd seen his expression soften in the dungeon with the whip. I'd do anything to have him look at me like that again, no matter how insane he was.

  It didn't matter anymore because we were both insane. How can the crazy judge the crazy? He was a sadist, and he'd trained me into the perfect masochist. Or maybe it had already been there, waiting for the right circumstances to present themselves.

  I'd been thinking more about my first boyfriend and how I'd reacted to being forced to orgasm, how different I was from those around me.

  He'd finished feeding me.

  “Did you pick me because you knew I would respond this way?”

  He just smiled.

  “You've got money and looks, and you're obviously smart,” I said. I left off the crazy part, because I'd just promised myself I'd do whatever I had to do to stay in the good cell. I wasn't even sure this wouldn't buy me more isolated punishment. Still, I pressed on. “You could have anyone you wanted. You could have seduced me, and I would have willingly played your games.”

  He arched a brow at me, and immediately I realized how stupid that sounded. He had seduced me, after a fashion. He didn't want the illusion of control; he wanted actual control. That was something very different. No matter how women might fawn over him, what he wanted, what he needed, was something he could only get in this way.

  He pushed me down onto my back, and I stayed there. The thin gashes from the whip burned from the pressure, but I didn't move. He wasn't finished with me yet; he'd just taken a break to feed me. Now he wanted a fresh and unmarked canvas to play on.

  He took the cart out of the room. I knew he was coming back for me, and whatever he was bringing with him, I would submit to it because I couldn't go back to that hollowed-out cell. I needed to be surrounded by things, distractions, amusements.

  I needed to lose myself dancing in the studio, or reading, or taking hot bubble baths. I wanted to soak up every physical sensation I could, in case it was all ripped away. All of it was an extension of him, and therefore all of it was a way in which he touched me.

  He returned moments later with a long red taper candle, matches, a vibrator, and two bowls. He filled one of the bowls with water, then returned, arranging everything carefully on the table.

  ***

  . . . He placed one of the chairs at the foot of the bed and pulled her to the end so that her legs dangled over the edge. She held her breath as he lit the candle and tilted it inches above her stomach. A hiss of air escaped her lips as the hot wax landed a drop at a time. A sharp stinging burn, that ebbed as the circle of wax dried and hardened.

  She jerked as if by the movement she could escape the pain, and the first few bits of wax dried in long slivers. He shook his head at her and peeled the strips of wax from her body, dropping them into the empty bowl. He rested his hand firmly on her stomach.

  Her voice came out barely above a whisper, “You want me to be still?”

  A nod.

  He removed his hand and let another drop of wax fall from the candle. He held it close to her skin, and she felt the warmth from the flame before the burning wax hit her flesh. A tear rolled down her cheek, but she didn't move. The wax dried in a little round dot. She let out a shaky breath, and he repeated the action.

  Over and over. She closed her eyes, focusing on breathing, crying, but not screaming because it might cause her to move. The little burning points of wax were being left close to one another, as if a pattern were forming on her skin, but it was so gradual she couldn't make it out. There was a puff of breath as the candle was extinguished, and she let out a breath.

  She heard a buzzing and then he'd shoved the vibrator inside her. Her muscles clenched as it pulsed through her. She remained still, afraid of disobeying him until he took her hips and coaxed her to move and respond to the vibrations.

  The pain was forgotten, but then he lit another match and was dripping the wax over her nipples, continuing to encourage her to move. He'd worked her into a frenzy, but she wasn't so past rational thought she didn't know what he wanted from her.

  He wanted her to come while he hurt her. The idea both repulsed and excited her as her body pushed around and reinterpreted the pain from the wax. She screamed as she came, her eyes shooting open. He snuffed out the candle and laid it on the little table, then pushed the vibrator deeper inside, holding it in place, forcing her to come for him again.

  He pointed to her stomach and she looked down. Where he'd wanted her to remain very still, she saw he'd spelled out a word with wax. “Mine.”

  She nodded, “Yes Master, I'm yours.”

  The verbal surrender was just one more piece of her that now belonged to him. He carefully flecked the pieces of wax off her body and dipped a washcloth into the bowl of water. The water was cool as he gently dragged it over her skin.

  He wrung the cloth out over her belly and then chased the trails of water with his tongue. She watched as he stood and retreated into the bathroom again. She lay there, her legs spread wide just as he'd positioned her, as the vibrator pushed her toward another orgasm.

  He returned and withdrew the toy.

  “Please . . . no . . . I need . . . ” She was babbling. She'd been so close. She shut her mouth and looked away from him. He'd already made her come several times that day. What was wrong with her that she needed more? She didn't care how she ached for it, she wouldn't beg again.

  Her body jerked at a new sensation and she looked down to see him back in the chair, a razor and the bowl of water in hand, shaving her. She was so sensitive. It was maddening to have the razor gently brushing her skin so close to her clit.

  When her pussy was bare, he ran the cloth over her sensitive flesh. She arched up to meet him, a small whimper leaving her mouth. He wrung the cloth out again, letting the droplets of cool water trickle down her slit.

  Then his wicked tongue was licking up the drops, dipping inside her, and lapping at her clit. He held her ass cheeks with his hands, pulling her up to him, as if she were a banquet he couldn't get enough of.

  She came for him again, moaning “Master,” because it was the only name she knew. He slid up her body and into her, pounding her into the mattress.

  She screamed.

  “Please,” She didn't want to go back to the cell, but the way he fucked her, with her back still raw and hurt, was too much.
“Please let me be on top.” She was too afraid to say no.

  He stopped, concern on his face, as if he'd gotten caught up and forgotten her back. “Shhhh,” he whispered, and flipped them so she was on top.

  “Thank you.” She rode him, and he gently stroked her back until he came inside her . . .

  ***

  He went to the closet, then he tossed me a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt that said bite me in bright red letters on it. I found I was disappointed that he hadn't. I dressed and sat on the edge of the bed, unsure of what I was supposed to say or do.

  “Master?”

  He looked up.

  “When you whipped me back there . . . was that . . . punishment?”

  He shook his head slowly, his eyes burning straight into me. I swallowed hard. I'd suspected as much. The cell was punishment; the whipping was because he enjoyed it. Got off on it.

  “I'm sorry for what I did that day,” I said quietly. I didn't have to elaborate.

  How did one apologize for attempted murder? Or was it self-defense? I couldn't be sure anymore. I only knew that I'd tried to kill him and instead of doing to me what I'd attempted to do to him, he'd spared my life.

  The only physical violence I'd experienced at his hands, I'd allowed him to do. A bargain, an exchange to keep me out of the cell and win his good favor. I was starting to feel safe with him. He'd gone from being just my tormentor to being my tormentor and protector, though I needed protection from nothing but him.

  He simply nodded in response to my apology.

  “Are you still angry with me?”

  He looked confused, and it occurred to me he hadn't been angry. He'd probably expected I would lash out at some point. It was natural in my position to do so, a part of the dance of victim and victimizer, and I'd played my part predictably.

  He'd probably looked forward to the moment he could show me the futility of my efforts to escape. To break me just a little more. No, there had been no reason for him to be angry. It was just one more success. The cell had been punishment for disobedience, plain and simple. Anything else I'd read into it was wrong.

  He picked up a hairbrush off the vanity and I flinched, thinking for a moment he might beat me with it, not out of anger but out of some sadistic need he had that he was slowly beginning to let me see. But he sat behind me instead, his legs coming around on either side of mine, and he brushed my hair. Slow, gentle strokes. I closed my eyes and relaxed.

  When he'd finished, he kissed me softly and left. He returned moments later, handed me a notebook, and was gone.

  Seven

  Ididn't pick it up at first. If the last book he'd left specially for me was any indication, I wasn't sure I wanted to know its contents. Instead, I left it on the table and went into the ballet studio to stand in front of the mirror.

  I lifted the T-shirt over my head and gingerly peeled back the medical tape. I couldn't stand not knowing how bad the whip marks were. I didn't know why it mattered. Even if it wasn't deep, he could just be getting started. And I didn't know whether he'd let me heal before he did it again.

  I waited until I'd gotten the bandages off before I dared to look at the damage. I pulled my hair up and peered over my shoulder at my reflection. It wasn't that bad. The bandages on the ground didn't have much blood on them, another good sign.

  It looked like he'd stopped as soon as he'd broken the skin. He'd also been careful to only hit my upper back and shoulders, nowhere it would cause permanent damage.

  I glanced up at where I knew the cameras were and wondered if I'd get in trouble for removing the bandages he'd spent so much time on. But if he was going to do it again, I thought it needed air, so the cuts would close more quickly. I tossed the bandages into a garbage can in the corner.

  I looked back into the mirror, this time at my stomach, at the light red burns left by the candle wax. I traced my fingers over the letters of the word mine, the temporary brand that I never wanted to fade away. Then I slipped the top back over my head, wincing as it settled over my skin.

  I'd accepted he was never letting me go. He'd invested too much time and money in all this. I couldn't begin to guess how many months he'd stalked me to discover so much about my likes and dislikes. If he hadn't taken me in the way he had, I would almost think he was a regular guy trying to impress me with gifts. But I knew that was ridiculous.

  He was a predator and I was his prey. No matter how much I came to depend on him and crave him, I wouldn't forget that. What he'd done and was continuing to do to me was wrong, but the constant struggle to fight it based on moral fortitude was too emotionally exhausting for me. Acceptance was easier.

  If I wanted to keep any part of my mind intact, I had to obey. There were only so many trips to the bad cell I could handle before I lost it completely, before I became a shell instead of a person. The good cell told me everything I needed to know. He was offering a gift I was fortunate to be given. He was offering to let me keep enough sense of self to not fall into madness.

  He didn't have to give me the nice room and the studio and bathroom and all the luxuries these rooms held. He didn't have to give me a window or the best southern food one could put in their mouth. He didn't have to ever give me any kind of pleasure. I tried to hold onto the reality that it didn't make any of it okay, but I was having a harder time seeing that because my reality had been narrowed to him and the things he could make me feel.

  I hadn't looked through all the CDs or books yet. In the short time I'd been in the rooms before attempting to kill him, I'd spent most of my time in the studio or taking bubble baths and trying on clothes. I thumbed through the CDs finding a wide range of things I liked: classical, rock, jazz, some international music.

  I wasn't a fan of international music and wondered if he was including his tastes as well. But I was curious, so I slipped a Middle Eastern CD into the player. The music was rich and earthy and alive in ways no other music I'd ever heard was. It pulsed through me, steady drumbeats, layers upon layers of rhythm and music.

  The room contained no TV or DVD player, no computer. There were no movies, no news, no commercials, no Internet. Nothing to link me too closely to the outside world. No faces to see but his, not even on a screen. No voices but my own calling out in the silence.

  I looked more closely at the books. I was familiar with the shelves at eye level. They held a lot of my favorites, but now I was looking more closely. On the lower left-hand row, closest to the dresser, almost as if it were hiding, was a complete section of erotica. Something like fifty titles. All of them were the same theme. Kinky. Most of them Master/slave fiction. A few of them familiar.

  Story of O, for example was a classic that I would just as soon not read again, given my current circumstances. I didn't know how many things from these books we'd be acting out. And I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

  It was one thing on paper, in a fictional world, it was quite another when it was real. Still, the books were there, calling to me, tempting me to read and be reawakened to their erotic secrets.

  I was no longer the teenager giggling under the covers with a flashlight reading something naughty and bad. I was a grown woman living it, and some darker part of me was clawing to get out because what choice did I have left but to give in to the dark?

  My eyes drifted back to the table and the plain black spiral notebook, like a college student might use. I knew it wasn't empty. It wasn't a blank book for me to write in. That I already had, and I'd been writing in it.

  No, the notebook contained information. It was his first explicit communication to me, and I was terrified to find out what it contained. After weeks of existing in a state where I had to read nonverbal signals, I was afraid to get actual words from him.

  I was scared to see how much of him I knew, and how much of him I didn't. But I couldn't ignore it anymore. Whatever was inside, I needed to read it, to prepare myself for what was coming next.

  I picked up the notebook and took a bottle of water from the mini
fridge, before lying down on my stomach on the bed.

  The book held no mention of why he'd taken me or for how long he intended to keep me. Though I knew the second answer: forever, or until he grew bored with me. I was afraid of what would happen once he did grow bored with me. Though I determined reasonably that could be a long way off, judging from his obsessive and meticulous behaviors so far. A man who plans for months before taking a slave doesn't grow bored with her in the same length of time.

  Instead of explanations, the book contained rules and punishments. Much of it I'd figured out already with regards to punishment, but to see it in black and white only confirmed my suspicions and left me no excuses to disobey and then claim ignorance.

  As I'd already known, obedience would keep me in his good favor and in the rooms I presently occupied. I had suspected as much . . . and yet there was always the fear he might move me back to the bad cell on a whim. But he'd written on the crisp white-lined pages that he wouldn't as long as I tried to submit, and I trusted him to keep his word.

  If I'd learned anything over the weeks of my captivity, it was that obedience equaled reward, and disobedience equaled punishment. He never lashed out in anger. He was always in control, both of me and of himself. It made me put faith in him that ultimately, if I followed the rules, he wouldn't harm or kill me.

  Masturbation wasn't allowed for any reason. Sexual pleasure would come from him and him alone. He mentioned the erotica. He wanted me to read it, at least one book a week, but I wasn't allowed to touch myself. If I did, I would be punished.

  Punishment was as I thought and as he'd confirmed earlier with only a look. I would be sent to the cell for any infractions. Each incarceration would be longer than the one before it. There was no sliding scale based on the level of infraction.

  I had expected the murder attempt would land me in the cell longer than if I'd just tried to escape. Or that trying to escape would offer me a longer punishment than if I'd refused to obey some small whim of his. But it was all the same.