Thirty Days of Pain

by Ginger Talbot

  Chapter Four

  We drive two hours up the coast along the Shoreline Highway, and then exit and head for the ocean. His house is surrounded by vast stretches of land on either side.

  There are enormous spiky iron gates, and a driveway that feels miles long. The gardens are immaculately trimmed, the shrubbery pruned into severe, twisting shapes. The trees that line the driveway are perfectly matched on each side, and symmetrical. This is a man who controls every inch of his environment.

  There are security cameras everywhere – on trees, on posts – and they move as we drive past them, winking red eyes that never sleep. And I’m sure there are plenty of cameras that aren’t visible too.

  Uncle Vilyat is so proud of his house. It is horribly gaudy and gauche compared to this, and about a quarter of the size.

  The building that we’re approaching is more compound than home. The white stucco building, topped with red clay barrel tile, seems to sprawl on forever. We drive past stunning flower gardens, and under any other circumstances my heart would sing at the beauty before me.

  We pull up to the front of the house, and there are enormous terracotta urns with cactuses in them on either side of the big arched doorway, and the cactuses are blooming. But my eyes don’t linger on the lush red flowers; they are drawn to the deadly white spikes that guard the cactus’ tender flesh.

  I wish they were a living metaphor for Sergei, but they’re not. Sergei doesn’t have a tender cell in his entire body.

  I am hustled inside, quickly. Sergei heads off with Karl and Mikhail. Feodyr directs me through the enormous foyer, down a long hallway, to the right, down another long hallway, and then he gestures at a door.

  “Shower,” he snaps, and turns and walks away.

  I hurry through my enormous room to do as I’m told, barely glancing at my luxurious surroundings. It’s not until after I’ve stripped and showered and dressed again that I dare to explore.

  My room has giant glass doors that open out into a garden and give the illusion of freedom. I can see clear down to the vast blue ocean. The domed ceiling is hand-painted with flowers and vines. My canopy bed has a silky blue comforter and piles of pillows. It’s nothing like what I expected. I thought I’d be shoved in some tiny, bare little room with a cot and barred windows. This is a prison cell of breathtaking beauty, and I wish I could decipher its meaning.

  I pace the tile floor, and I’m practically bouncing off the walls with nervous energy and sheer terror.

  What is he going to do to me? When is he going to do it?

  It’s the not knowing that’s awful.

  A part of me wishes he’d give me a schedule.

  A rape and torture schedule.

  A nervous giggle bubbles up inside me at the thought.

  With nothing else to do, I start pulling open doors, and I gasp when I see the walk-in closet.

  It’s full of beautiful designer dresses, tops, and slacks, all in my size. Dozens of pairs of shoes, also in my size.

  Oddly enough, every single outfit is perfect for me. I like to dress in light, airy, bohemian clothes, with colors of cream and rose. I like macramé and lace. I like silver jewelry. My uncle dressed me the same way he dressed his wife – in thick, heavy, society-lady clothes, in Chanel and Fendi. If there was any color, it was bright and screaming – Pucci, Lilly Pulitzer. And I was always dripping with gold and pearls and diamonds.

  Should I change into something I like? Am I allowed to?

  I decide to wait until tomorrow morning. I wander away from the closet to check out the rest of the room.

  There is a wall of bookshelves, and as I look over them, I am shocked to see that he knows my taste in books. My favorite poets, the current bestsellers that I like... How did he know? Did he hack into Amazon and check my purchase history?

  I see an easel by the window, and I walk over. There’s a pad of paper on it. Next to it is a little table with a tin of colored pastel pencils, my favorite medium.

  Under normal circumstances, I’d think this meant that he didn’t want me to be bored while I stayed here. But my circumstances are far from normal. He just molested and threatened me in front of his men. And then sent me to a room that’s a glorious paradise designed just for me.

  I don’t know what to think, and it makes my stomach cramp with worry.

  The door swings open, and I jump. Feodyr comes in. His expression is unreadable. Blank, cold, like a wall of granite.

  “Come with me.” His voice is a growl. It drips with contempt.

  So it begins.

  I thought, earlier, of trying to connect with the staff. Trying to ingratiate myself with them, making small talk. Definitely not going to work with him; his stiff back is rigid with anger that I don’t understand.

  He leads me through a maze of hallways, into a small room that looks like a cross between a doctor’s room and a mini spa. The walls are painted a light, soothing violet-blue, and there are white-framed pictures of blue flowers. There’s an ob-gyn chair with stirrups in the middle of the room, covered with a white sheet. There’s a rolling steel cart with a pot of sweet-smelling wax, and bottles, and jars of cotton balls, and a glass jar of what looks like tongue depressors. There’s an adjustable lamp next to the bed.

  Sergei stands next to the chair. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt now. The T-shirt molds around the enormous muscles of his biceps. He’s rock hard, his stomach washboard-flat.

  Karl and Mikhail are leaning on the wall at the back of the room, their eyes gleaming with anticipation.

  “Strip,” Sergei says coldly.

  I stifle the urge to make a joke, like, “Jeez, you’re not even going to buy me dinner first?” I doubt these men have ever laughed in their lives.

  Unless someone’s crying or screaming in front of them.

  I avoid their gazes as I shuck my dress and panties and bra. My face burns with embarrassment as I toss my clothing into an empty wicker basket. I have always been a private person. I wear one-piece bathing suits to the beach. The two guys I had sex with when I was in college – we did it in the dark.

  Sergei points at the chair, and I climb onto it, putting my feet on the stirrups.

  Oh God. They can see everything.

  He moves swiftly, and before I realize what’s coming next, he reaches under the sheets and pulls out a leather strap. He straps my left wrist down. I clench my teeth and look away, staring at the pictures on the wall. He straps down both wrists, then straps down my legs – spread wide apart.

  The smell of the wax is sickeningly sweet. I am rigid with humiliation and rage.

  A beautiful young woman walks through the door. She is wearing a white overcoat like an aesthetician. Her hair is glossy black and perfectly blow-dried, held back with a white bandeau, and her brows are waxed, her lips red and glossy. She scowls at me.

  Why? I’ve never met her before. The hatred in the room is so thick, it’s like a poisonous fog. I ache inside. Why do they all despise me like this? Has Sergei told everyone here that I torture puppies and eat babies for breakfast? No, that would probably endear me to them.

  She walks over, puts on a pair of rubber gloves, and dips what looks like a popsicle stick into the pot of wax. She approaches me with it.

  Karl and Mikhail are staring at my exposed crotch with naked hunger, and I look away, tears threatening to spill down my cheeks.

  “Galina,” Sergei says, a harsh note of warning in his voice. She freezes. “If you burn or blister her, I will burn and blister your entire body.”

  Why the hell does he need to tell her that?

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” Her voice is oily and ingratiating. When she looks at him, her tongue pokes out of her mouth and strokes her upper lip. He doesn’t seem to notice.

  She moves the lamp to shine right between my legs. She smears hot wax on my pussy with rapid strokes, and I flinch. Then she slaps a cloth patch on it. When she rips the cloth off, I jerk with pain and stifle a scream.

  My God. Women go
to salons and do this every month. Is she being especially brutal, or is this how it feels for everyone?

  Again and again, she rips hair from me, and I can no longer stifle the whimpers of pain, or the tears streaming down my cheeks. She moves from front to back with brisk efficiency.

  My whole pussy is on fire. It hurts so badly.

  If we were in a real spa, I would run out of the door, screaming. If I were in a room full of actual human beings, I’d beg them to stop.

  But there’s no one to turn to for help. They want my pain. They’re drinking in my fear and misery like fine wine. Their evil joy hurts me more than the physical suffering.

  She smears more wax on me, slaps another cloth patch on. Her eyes gleam with malice. She’s loving every second of this.

  Why?

  When will this end?

  She rips the patch off, and I sob, openly. I’m gasping for breath. My muscles are as tense as bowstrings.

  “Done,” she says to Sergei, with a touch of reluctance.

  Sergei walks over. He looks down, inspecting my exposed sex. I’m shaking and tears are dripping off my chin onto my chest.

  Sergei glances up at Karl and Mikhail. “Get out,” he says to them. He gives Galina a look of annoyance. “You too.”

  And then he reaches down and unzips his pants.

  Karl and Mikhail exchange smirks – they know what’s coming next – and walk out. Galina flicks us a cold, hostile glance and follows them.

  To my surprise, Sergei undoes the straps. “Don’t move,” he snaps.

  So now we’ve moved on to the part where I’m complicit in my own debasement.

  He’s so close I can smell his clean, masculine scent and a hint of musky cologne. Looming over me, he trails his fingers down my stomach, over my breasts. Then between my legs.

  I still hurt, but the pain is fading.

  He trails his finger between my legs, and I shiver with desire, with need.

  Then he bends down and traces his tongue along the seam of my labia, a feather-light touch that arouses and astounds me. This man has torn the limbs off other humans with his bare hands, but his touch is so soft and erotic I think I’ll faint.

  He does it again. And again. Arousal sizzles down my nerve endings, and I can feel the moisture oozing from my pussy.

  He must love the taste, because he’s lapping it up. I imagine him dropping his pants, placing his big, rough hands on my thighs, thrusting into me…

  He stands up, and I gasp in shock.

  His voice is harsh and taunting. “Do you want me to make you come, Pussy Willow?”

  I’m furious, and I hate him, but I can’t deny how much my body wants him. And it’s inevitable. He’ll take me anyway, whether I want him or not.

  At least that’s what I tell myself when I utter the cowardly words.

  “Yes. Sir.” I choke the words out.

  And he moves back several steps.

  “Not good enough,” he sneers. “You’ll have to beg me for it. Get dressed.”

  A volcano of rage and shame inside me. Are you fucking kidding me? Beg you to rape me? I think furiously.

  But is it rape if I’m asking him to do it? If I’m willing, craving, burning for it?

  I slide off the chair and dress quickly, staring at the ground.

  “You will not touch yourself tonight,” he informs me.

  I give him a quick, startled glance.

  “Because if you do, I will know.” Cameras in my bedroom. Got it. What a surprise. “And I will punish you for your disobedience until death would be a relief. And then you will sleep with your hands and legs tied to the bedpost, and you will have your hands cuffed behind your back, 24-7. You’ll bend over to eat and drink out of bowls. You’ll call for a servant to wipe you, to bathe you. Because you only come when I say you can. I own your body, I own your pussy, and I own your orgasms.”

  I nod, stunned, not trusting myself to speak. He has set me on fire and he is standing there… mocking, watching me burn.

  He picks up my dress out of the laundry basket and rips it in half.

  “Get out. Go back to your room.” He leaves without a word, still holding the shredded pieces of my dress.

  I look around. There’s nothing else for me to wear. I pick up a towel. It’s the size of a wash-cloth.

  I grab the sheet off the chair and wrap it around myself, and walk out of the room.

  Feodyr is waiting for me. He snatches the sheet from me, and I grit my teeth. I want to spit insults at him, but I don’t dare.

  We walk down the hall. Past floor-to-ceiling windows, past gardeners trimming the hedges outside, who stare at my naked body.

  I am so embarrassed I wish I could pass out. I cover my breasts and crotch with my hands.

  There’s a maid dusting paintings on the wall, and she looks away as I walk by. I can feel my face burning.

  This is okay with them? What is the matter with these people?

  I’m not saying I come from good people…but in my family, at least we keep up the pretense that we’re normal.

  When I get to my room, there’s a tray with a platter of shrimp scampi and a basket of buttery rolls sitting on an oval table by the window. My absolute favorite.

  But now, the fact that Sergei knows the most intimate details about me no longer feels reassuring. It feels painful and threatening.

  I quickly put on a dress from the closet, a black floral maxi that reaches my ankles. I want to cover my flesh as much as possible. I sit down and eat a few bites of shrimp, but I’m so stressed out that I have no appetite.

  What are my aunt and cousins doing right now? Are they all right? Are they alive?

  And where is Sergei? Will he come to me tonight?

  The bastard does not, and later I put on pajamas and try to sleep. I toss and turn, knowing that he is likely watching me and laughing – with his men by his side. My arousal pulses between my legs, but I do not dare touch myself, because I have no doubt that he would make good on his threats.

  I have twenty-nine more days of hell left after tonight. I don’t want to spend them handcuffed.

  Chapter Five

  Day two…

  The next morning I shower and put on a light, floaty cotton dress, white splashed with prints of pale blue Mandalas, and macramé sandals. Breakfast is brought to my room by a silent maid. I want to talk to her, to ask her about Sergei, but she’s avoiding my gaze.

  She takes last night’s platter away, sets a tray down in front of me, and leaves quickly. Royal Copenhagen plates; the dishware on that tray is worth more than many people earn in a year. The cheese omelet is no doubt delicious, but it tastes like ashes in my mouth.

  I eat a few bites and drink some coffee.

  Nobody has told me what to do today. After a few hours of pacing around my room and staring at the pages of books without really seeing the words, I decide to explore, and pray I won’t be punished for it.

  I grab the sketch pad and the tin of pastels, open the garden door and head out.

  The sky overhead is an endless blue, strung with wispy strands of white cotton clouds. I walk through gardens of fragrant red roses. White pebble pathways wind through stone benches and statues and fountains.

  I try to pull images of that beauty to me and wrap them around myself, as a shield against the ugliness of the world I live in now.

  I come to a maze of hedges, and as I walk through them, trailing my fingers along the cool leaves, a little boy comes running around the corner.

  “Majka! Majka!” he cries out. And other words I don’t understand. I speak decent Russian, but his accent sounds Czech.

  He has mistaken me for someone else, someone named Majka. I kneel down and stroke his corn-silk hair. His blue eyes are huge, and his dark lashes are fringed with teardrops. He throws his arms around my leg and holds on tight.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I say to him in English. I say it again in Russian. He answers in another language.

  I hear the thuddin
g of footsteps, and an older couple come rushing around the hedgerow corner. They look exasperated. They gently chastise the boy and try to take him away. He clings to me, crying loudly.

  Why is there a child in this place?

  I feel worry knotting my insides, but he looks well-fed, clean, pink-cheeked. He’s wearing Burberry; he seems too well-dressed to be a servant’s child.

  The older couple try to lead him away, but he won’t let go of my leg.

  I sit down on the ground, cross-legged, and he plops down next to me. The older couple hover nearby, looking worried. I show him my pad of paper and pastels. I quickly start to sketch a picture of him. I try to capture his blue elfin eyes, his curly blond hair. When he sees that I’m drawing him, he smiles at me and chatters happily. I don’t understand a word of it.

  Finally, the woman bends down and picks him up, and he is howling now, reaching back to me. The couple are trying to soothe him, and he doesn’t seem to be afraid of them at all; he just wants to be with me.

  Shaken and angry, I return to my room. I wish I could ask who he is, but I’m afraid that would somehow get him in trouble. Or me.

  I would offer to babysit him, talk to him... I love children. I spend as much time with other people’s children as I can, because I have resolved never to have any of my own. I would never curse a child with my blood.

  I shake my head. Sergei has dark plans for me; it’s probably safest for the little boy if I stay away from him.

  I barely touch my lunch, and I struggle to concentrate on the book I’ve selected. A romance novel. I could use a little love in my life right now, even if it’s fictional.

  Throughout the day, I keep glancing at the giant clock on the wall. Right now, Yuri is arriving at his fencing lesson, Helenka is slipping into her toe shoes… I force myself to imagine them happy, smiling. I doubt that’s how they’re really feeling right now. Nobody’s really explained to them what’s happening, but they know it’s bad.

  That evening, Galina bangs the door open and sweeps in without a word. She’s wearing a black silk pantsuit and low heels.