by Stasia Black
Dad loved her so much, though, he never saw her for the user that she was. It was somewhat taboo, marrying outside his wealthy WASP circles. Maybe it was love between them at first, I don’t know. He met her when she was waitressing at a bar near Harvard. My grandparents never accepted her—some intruder in their lives from south of the border—but Dad loved her beyond all reason. To him, she would always just be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life, who for a time had chosen him. Even after she left him and went on to become a richer man’s trophy wife. Then she died in a car wreck and became forever enshrined in his memory.
She had that way about her, though. A way of making people love her. The only other person who saw her for the narcissistic, spoiled woman that she was was her older sister Mariana. Not as pretty as my mother, Mariana is still an attractive woman living in Mexico. I was able to visit her a couple of years ago. It was such a relief to finally be able to talk about the real woman I’d known my mother to be. Like I could finally be sure I wasn’t just making it all up in my head. But no, that was how Mariana remembered her, too. She was a kind, calm woman with a passel of children who all seemed to adore her.
It was already too late for me, though. I was the spitting image of my mother, if a shade lighter in skin tone and with a short bob instead of her long hair that she always paid such meticulous care to. And I’d also inherited her aversion to children.
My college friends had babies and I’d visit them from time to time. I felt nothing. No biological ticking clock. No yearning to hold the babies. They screamed a lot and it always got on my nerves.
So, while I might be my mother’s daughter, I always swore I wouldn’t make her mistake. I’d never have kids. Not something I thought too much about because, well, at least until several days ago—virgin.
But now I have to have this stranger’s baby.
Well, fine. Women are surrogates for people all the time. That’s all this is. I have no motherly instincts, obviously. I can barely handle thinking the word baby much less saying it out loud. So yes, I’m just the surrogate for Xavier’s baby. It doesn’t make a difference that the egg making up half the baby happens to be mine. Women also donate their eggs all the time. So what if I’m doing both parts, the donating and the surrogating?
It’s no big deal. At the end of this year, Dad will be safe forever. He’s already starting his new life in whatever island paradise Xavier’s settled him. Yes, he’s upset right now because he doesn’t know what’s happening to me but Xavier said he’d send pictures letting him know I’m okay… I look around me. Well, God, so at this particular moment, I’m not awesome but I’m going to fix all of it.
Just a year of pretending and then I’ll find a way to start over, too.
I can legally change my name.
Move out of New York and go somewhere no one knows me. Maybe Chicago. There are some great ad firms there. I’ll have to start from scratch and yeah, it’ll take a lot of work. But I’m stubborn and—
My stomach cramps with hunger.
Right. I’ve got more immediate problems.
If Xavier keeps to the same schedule he did the other days, he shouldn’t have gone in for dinner yet. Whether he’ll hear me is another matter. I open my mouth and yell at the top of my lungs. “Master? Master! May I please have dinner?” Maybe he has a camera on me out here, too?
The sun is dropping near the horizon even though it’s probably another hour before sunset. But I suddenly can’t wait another second.
And lucky me, Xavier comes ambling around the house toward me just a few minutes later. He’s in his work gear, giant hat and all, like I caught him mid-cowboying. What the hell does a cowboy do all day anyway, other than, I don’t know, feed animals?
Internally I roll my eyes. Right now, the only animal I care about him feeding is me.
He doesn’t seem surprised that I’m finally giving in. His expression is the same calm, placid one he usually has. Like this is all business as usual.
God, has he done this sort of thing before? The thought makes my stomach sour. But no, he obviously hasn’t done exactly this thing before, because there aren’t any kids running around the place. Then heat flushes my neck—what, am I weirdly excited to be special in this fucked-up dude’s world? I shake my head at myself.
The chain-link door swings open and he steps in, gaze zeroed in on my soggy form.
I want to snap out something snarky like, enjoying the view? But instead, I bite my tongue and lower my lashes. “May I have dinner, Master?” Ugh, the words feel like acid on my tongue, but I manage not to gag on them. Barely.
I keep my gaze averted, but it’s difficult, especially when Xavier doesn’t say anything in return. After what feels like an endless silence I finally hear his heavy steps coming toward me over the soggy hay.
His large hand drops underneath my chin and he lifts my face up toward his. He searches my eyes. “You’ll accept food from my hand like a good pet?”
Don’t react, don’t react, don’t react.
I nod and apparently do a good enough job of not showing that what I really feel like doing is punching him in the balls. The hand underneath my chin pushes a lock of hair behind my ear. He continues to caress around the back of my neck where he squeezes in a gentle massage. Then he pulls me in against his chest, continuing to rub my back in soothing circles.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Shh, that’s my good girl.”
And absurdly, the gentle touch after the uncomfortable, stressful, and occasionally terrifying days outside makes me want to cry and cling to him.
The fact that his warm body feels like safety is super screwed up. I know that, logically.
My body on the other hand? God, all I want to do is curl up against him.
This is how Stolkholm syndrome starts screams some rational part of my brain.
It’s just that in spite of the sun coming out after the rain, I’m so cold. Cold and wet and miserable and tired. Most of all tired. I swear I might collapse at Xavier’s feet I’m so tired.
And wouldn’t that show him, the cruel jackass. He’s no more the good-hearted hero than I am Cinderella. This is no fairytale. It’s real and ugly and fucked up.
And you just have to play along and see it through to the conclusion while trying to keep your sanity intact.
No biggie.
I’ll just ignore the swell of emotions that rushes when he picks me up into his arms. Not in a fireman’s carry this time. No, he swings my legs up and puts one of his huge arms underneath my knees, the other securely under my back. My arms shoot around his neck for lack of anywhere else to hold onto. He heads straight for the house. I’m weak from the days without food and I clutch onto him with the little bit of strength I’ve got remaining.
Once we’re inside, he doesn’t head upstairs to get cleaned up like I think he will. No, instead he heads toward the kitchen.
He sits me down on the single dining room chair, then swiftly walks out again. Almost immediately I lay my head down on the table, staring after him in the direction he left.
Okay, so food will come first. That’s good. Very good.
He returns a couple minutes later, carrying one of the large arm chairs from the den. The chair is piled with towels and blankets. It barely fits through the door to the kitchen, but he sets it down and shimmies it through sideways. Then he hauls it so that it’s right beside the stove.
Without a word, he comes back to me, picks me up, and carries me over to the plush chair. When he deposits me on it, he wraps me in the blankets, tucking them around me like a parent might a child.
I can only blink up blankly at him during all of this. I don’t really know how to handle this side of him. The man who tosses me into an outdoor dog kennel for three days is easy to hate.
This incarnation who caresses my hair and whispers, “Shh, you’re doing so good, everything’s going to be easier now, just rest while I make us some food.”
Him, I don’t know what to do w
ith.
He curls up one of the blankets like a pillow against the wingback chair. “There, rest your head,” he urges, helping me settle my head against it.
I don’t even flinch at his touch this time. I feel strange and almost numb. From hunger? I’m not sure. I just know I don’t feel like myself.
I pull my knees up and curl into the chair, watching Xavier as he pulls a small kitchen towel out of one of the drawers and runs warm water over it from the tap. Then, without a word, he comes back to me and washes my face. The rag is warm as he scrubs in long strokes from my cheeks down over my neck to my throat. His motions are slow and unhurried. Soothing even.
He finishes quickly. Then he silently fires up the gas stove and pulls eggs and bacon out of the fridge. He fries the bacon first and it smells so good that it makes my empty stomach cramp. I briefly wonder why he’s making breakfast food even though it’s almost nighttime.
Xavier still seems perfectly at ease, though, pulling the bacon out of the pan with a fork and then cracking eggs into the sizzling grease without looking over at me once. He washes his hands while the eggs cook then flips them with the fork at the end to scramble them. He piles them onto two plates and peels a couple of tangerines before setting the plates at the head of the table. Guess it’s breakfast for dinner tonight. Apart from the tangerines substituted for pancakes, it’s the same meal I refused that first morning.
Only once he’s set the plates down does he look my way again.
Maybe he’ll let it slide tonight because I’m so tired and I can just eat my food like a normal person? We can start up the whole charade tomorrow and—
Then I see him retrieve a large square pillow from inside the bottom cupboard and lay it on the ground beside his chair.
Or not.
He comes over to me and reaches both hands out. I’m not sure if it’s better or worse when he doesn’t just manhandle me. Holding his hands out to me like this, it’s a request to do what he wants. Like I can choose to obey or not.
But no, my foggy food-deprived brain tries to remind me—appearing to comply on the outside doesn’t mean that I’m actually giving in. I’m just being smart and getting some goddamned sustenance.
There’s no point in starving.
Or spending another night out in the kennel.
I drop my feet to the ground, lift my weary arms, and grasp his big hands. He hefts me to my feet and wraps a sturdy arm around my waist as he leads me over to the pillow beside his chair, where he helps me lower to my knees.
Again, everything in me rebels. Except my stomach. My empty stomach is very on board with whatever will get it food the fastest.
I crouch down on the little pillow, jaw tight.
I’ll do this but it doesn’t have to mean I like it.
I arrange myself on my knees and Xavier’s hands immediately press on my shoulders so that I’m sitting even further down, folded ass to calves. Then he arranges my hands the way he wants them. Last but not least, he pushes my head down to the appropriate angle so I can see only his bare feet and the bottom of his jeans.
“This is the submissive position. It’s one I want you to become familiar with.”
My back stiffens. Is he freaking kidding? It’s bad enough that I’m sitting here at his feet, but he thinks—
“I can tell how much you like that idea, Pet,” he laughs, stroking my short hair and then scratching down to my scalp.
Then he settles a blindfold over my eyes. Wait, where did that come from? Did he already have it on the table and I was just too out of it to notice it?
“Eventually it will become second nature to you.”
At what no doubt is my stunned expression, he continues, “I am your Master and you are my pet and you will learn your true place starting now.”
He snaps his fingers. “Open,” he commands.
His hand drops from my hair and one of his fingers settles with the barest pressure on my bottom lip.
I’d love to tell him to go to hell for snapping at me like a dog, but the next second, the smell of eggs hits my nostrils and my mouth falls immediately open.
His fingers return, placing a small bit of eggs into my mouth. I bite into the warm, soft, slightly moist food, having to suck it from his fingers at the end to make sure I don’t waste any of it.
For a second with the blindfold, I was afraid he’d try to trick me and put something gross in my mouth as additional punishment for not giving into him right away—but no, it’s just eggs. Perfectly cooked, salted, delicious eggs.
My mouth is open and waiting when his fingers next descend. He pops the second bite of eggs in my mouth. His other hand lingers on my head, stroking my hair while I eat.
Petting me.
The realization should be humiliating, but screw it. It’s just the two of us here, and besides, I’ve already decided I’m the one playing him in all of this, so none of it really matters.
I open my mouth again, but this time, nothing meets my lips.
“I’ve got some bacon right here. Would you like some of that?”
I nod my head up and down.
Xavier tuts his tongue at me. “What do you say, Pet?”
Oh my God, I’m definitely crushing his balls when all is said and done. “Yes, Master,” I manage to get out through my thick throat. “Sir, may I please have the rest of my breakfast?”
“That’s right,” he says soothingly, his hand returning to my head. “That’s a good girl.” The next thing I know my taste buds are exploding with the flavor of maple-smoked bacon.
Next comes more eggs, then bacon again.
“Suck my fingers,” he orders. “Suck every last piece of juice off.”
He shoves his thick fingers in my mouth and obediently, I suck.
He pumps them slowly in and out, eventually pulling them out with a pop and shoving his thumb in instead.
It’s just a show, I tell myself as I suck greedily at his thumb. I just need to make it look convincing or he might decide the meal is over before I’m ready.
“Now for something a little sticky and sweet.”
Why does every word out of his mouth suddenly sound like the dirtiest thing in the English language?
He sticks several slices of tangerine in my mouth.
“Bite down,” he instructs.
The slices are a mouthful and when I comply, juice spurts out and down my lips. I duck my face and lift a hand to wipe at the juice, but Xavier’s swats me lightly. He grabs my hair and exposes my throat in that way he’s so fond of doing. I chew and swallow some of the tangerine pulp, but juice continues dripping down over my chin.
I startle when I feel Xavier’s tongue on my neck, licking upward to catch the trail of juice. He must be down on the floor with me. Up and up his tongue traces, all the way to my bottom lip.
My breath hitches as he licks the last of the juice from the corner of my mouth. Then he nuzzles his cheek against mine. “That’s right. Shhh, you’re doing so, so well.”
When he sticks another piece of egg in my mouth and his finger lingers after I finish the bite, I suck without him even asking.
By the end of breakfast when my formerly empty stomach feels full to bursting, I’m near to crying with the confusion of needs he’s stirring up in me.
He hauls me up from the floor. I stumble unsteadily on my feet, unused to sitting in a position like that for half an hour. His strong arms set me aright. I think that he’ll take off my blindfold and let me go up to bed.
Of course nothing ever goes like I expect with this man. The blindfold stays on and when he hefts me into his arms again and takes me upstairs, we don’t stop at my bedroom on the second floor. My head falls against his shoulder as I feel him carry me up to the third floor.
Oh God, what now? I’m finally full but no less tired. If I could just sleep for a week, that’d be awesome right about now.
He pushes open the door to his large suite and I brace to be dropped unceremoniously onto his giant bed again. I squee
ze my eyes shut underneath the mask.
It only makes sense, though. I’m here for a reason and we haven’t been up to any baby-making activities for almost three days now.
But he keeps walking once we’re inside the room. Then I hear his boots on tile. His room is carpeted. We must be in the bathroom.
He sets me down on my feet and I stumble a little, disoriented.
“Lean against the wall for balance,” he says, and then I hear the sound of a faucet being turned on and the echo of rushing water.
A bath. He’s running me a bath.
My body sinks against the wall he indicated beside me. Oh God, a bath does sound divine. I don’t even want to think about the layer of dirt and grime and God knows what else that’s coating me. Ugh, I shudder just thinking about it.
Even when Xavier was stroking my hair earlier, his fingers kept getting caught in tangles. My hair is barely four or five inches long—there’s not that much to get snarled. Still, personal hygiene hasn’t been at the top of my list of priorities the past couple of days.
The bathwater turns off a few minutes later and Xavier’s hands return. From behind, he starts low at my knees and his fingers skate up my outer thighs, higher and higher until he lifts my dress up over my head. Without him asking, I lift my arms to help him get it off. He murmurs approving noises—not even words, just positive vocalizations.
My bra comes off next. Then his warm hands are on my body again, starting on my hips and caressing down as he slides my panties off.
He leads me with an arm around my waist like he did earlier.
“Step,” he says. “Careful.” He holds my hand as I step blindly over the rim of what I’m guessing is a bathtub. My foot sinks into warm water. It’s deeper than I expect and I have to clutch Xavier for balance. God, is that the point of the blindfold? So I have to depend on him for absolutely everything? My food? Every single step I take? I mean, is that some sort of deeper lesson I’m supposed to be getting from all this?
Or am I making too much of it and he just gets off on having chicks blindfolded?
