Bend

by K. Bromberg

  “You like my fingers?”

  I swallow in response. He pulls them out, slowly again, then touches the hood of my clit, shifting it slightly. The effect is hypnotic.

  “Look at you,” he says, his face close enough to mine that I can smell his peppermint breath. “You’re a slave to me right now.” He runs his fingers back to my opening, and to my clit, with just the tip, in circles. “Your discomfort is getting crowded out by pleasure. You want to come so bad. This isn’t even pleasure. It’s the expectation of release. Do you know how long I can keep you going like this? Do you know what I can do to your body? As long as you need that release, I can take you to the breaking point. What wouldn’t you do for me?”

  He circles a wet finger around my asshole then back to my clit, which feels explosive, engorged, hot to the touch.

  “Show me what a kitten you are. Meow for me.”

  I mewl, wiggling my hips to get a little more pressure on my cunt when he puts his fingers in me. But he and the ropes have complete control.

  “Not like that. Don’t be saucy. Do it like a real kitten.”

  “Oh God, just let me—”

  He squeezes my clit, and I cry out, because it hurts, and it’s just about as close to an orgasm as possible.

  He slaps the inside of my thigh. “Easy, girl. The more you demand, the longer I’ll keep you on the edge.”

  I’m sweating, leaking fluid everywhere. I don’t have a brain. I don’t even want to fuck. I just want to come.

  “Meow for me,” he says.

  A kitten. What does a kitten sound like? A real mewl. No M sound, just a vowel. I make it. I mewl for him as he runs his fingertip over my hood, shifting it just enough. I mewl again. It’s humiliating, to make animal sounds while tied and bent over, but it gives me something to concentrate on. This isn’t the first time I’ve enjoyed being debased.

  “Good girl. You’re such a good girl. Do you want to come?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, please. Please. God, let me come for you.”

  With his free hand, he grabs the hair on the top of my head, yanking it against the ties to my ankles. “Don’t move. Just meow.”

  He slides a finger in my asshole, and my mewl turns to a cry of pleasure. When he presses his thumb to my clit, hard, I lose my breath. He rotates the thumb, and I explode. My asshole pulses around him, my cunt tightens, and the rush of release comes out of my mouth in grunts that I can’t concentrate on enough to make the kitten sounds he likes.

  His thumb drifts off me halfway then presses again, and I explode all over, wiggling in the confines of the ropes. The orgasm is eternal, like an electrical pulse arching my back, my fingers gripping my forearms. He does it again, leaning forward and shoving two fingers in my ass. My back arches farther, and the ropes press into my ribs.

  Time happens for someone else, but not me. The orgasm goes on and on under this madass bastard’s hands.

  I open my eyes, and I see him through my hair as he fucks me with his fingers again. His face is intense, as if he’s reining in a hotblood, and I gear up for another explosion.

  I need to breathe. I need to think. It’s almost painful to come this much. But I can’t move. I’m going to die, and live, and crack into a thousand fleshy pieces.

  “Stop,” I say. “Please stop.”

  “One more, kitten,” he growls. And he gets it.

  ***

  I rode the Westonwood sink on the tips of my right toes, sliding my wet pussy against it. I came in four pushes, legs tingling, back arching, mouth open. Knowing less than the sum of what I remembered and forgot, only blank, preciously empty but for pleasure.

  four.

  Margie, three years out of law school, was already boring. I couldn’t stand her, but I loved her for sitting in the visitation room in a pale green suit, her red hair in a sensible bob.

  Before I even had my butt in my chair, she said, “He’s alive.”

  “How alive?”

  “He’s too weak to talk. You got the hoof knife between two ribs—”

  “A hoof knife? My God—” Hoof knives didn’t have a point, though mine was sharp on the tip. How hard had I been at him to get that to even puncture?

  “You missed his heart by an eighth of an inch and just scraped a lung. There’ll be a nice scar to show the grandkids.”

  “Was it me? I did it? Are you sure?”

  “You called the cops and said you did, and you attacked them when they got there.”

  “I don’t… There’s no way I could have.” I was utterly baffled. Why would I do that? I’d done crazy shit, but stab Deacon? That was the craziest of crazyfuckshit I’d ever heard. “Where? We weren’t on Maundy Street. Couldn’t have been.”

  “The stables. Then you tried to slit your own throat. You really don’t remember?”

  “You think I’m putting it on?”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past you.” She held her face firm as if daring me to get offended.

  “You don’t have to represent me if you don’t want to,” I said. “I know you find me repulsive.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You do. You’ve never understood me.”

  “That’s not the same as finding you repulsive,” Margie said. “Let’s face it. You don’t even understand you. The difference between us is that I happen to love you.”

  I had no answer. I just fixed my jaw and felt like more of a recalcitrant child than I ever did in front of Mom.

  “Fiona, do you want to talk about this? Should I come back tomorrow? Or not at all? Daddy’s trying to get me pulled off the case.”

  “Why?”

  “He says I’m not experienced enough. I don’t know the real reason.” She shook her head. “Point is—”

  I grabbed her hand over the table. “It has to be you. Don’t leave me.”

  “Tell me what happened. I know you don’t remember, but what was with you two? Did he cheat on you? Did he hit you? What would have made you snap?”

  I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. She didn’t understand us. No one would.

  “Drazen pledge,” I said.

  “I’m your lawyer. Anything you say is under attorney-client privilege.”

  I held up my hand. “Are you opening pledge or not?”

  “Fine.” She held up her hand. “Pledge open.”

  I relaxed. Between myself and my seven siblings, six sisters and one brother, opening a pledge meant nothing said could be repeated and only the truth could be spoken.

  “This is so hard to explain,” I said.

  “It’ll get easier after the first ten times.”

  “I don’t know where to start.”

  She crossed her arms. “Start by not stalling. Assume I know you use drugs. Assume I know you’ve had more sex in the past three years than I’ve had in my life.”

  “We had an open-ish relationship.”

  “Okay.”

  “The ish part is that…” I swallowed. “Up until a few months ago, my other partners were limited to people we knew, at parties he threw.” I didn’t mention the knottings. I wasn’t ready to tell her I had been a fuckable art object, because I’d have to explain that I’d never been in such control of my sexuality as I was in this open-ish relationship.

  “And why did that change?”

  There was a relief in her question, because it didn’t judge the excesses, only the switch to normalcy.

  “We fell in love.” The blade of those words cut through the dullness of the meds, and snot and tears flooded my face.

  “No,” Margie said. “You stop right now.”

  I tried to tell her I couldn’t, but I was beyond speaking, beyond using my mouth for anything but breathing thick cry gunk. I could barely breathe without croaking—how could I speak a whole sentence? “I couldn’t have hurt him.”

  “Fuck.” Margie had always been impatient with outbursts, yet she always knew what to do about them. She swung her chair to my
side of the table as if she was flinging it in a bar fight and sat next to me, putting her arm over my shoulder. I fell into her. She said nothing and stroked my hair.

  “He went away, and I couldn’t keep it together,” I croaked. “I have a hard time without sex. I need it. But he understands me. We worked on ways to make it work. Why would I stab him?”

  “He’s not saying. Is it possible he came after you, and you stabbed him in self-defense? Maybe he surprised you at the stables?”

  “I don’t remember. I swear I don’t. What I was even doing there? I haven’t been to Branwyn in forever.”

  “You have a chipped molar. Do you remember when that happened?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “The exam showed nerve damage in your wrist. Did he ever grab you there?”

  I shook my head as if I was emptying change out of the bottom of a piggy bank. Nerve damage to the wrist could be caused by an improper knotting, but Deacon would never, ever make that mistake, and I would have called it out if I’d felt a tingling.

  “Margie, I’m so confused. It’s like my brain isn’t working right. I have to see him. I have to talk to him.” I didn’t know how I’d calmed enough to make sentences, but I had. I wiped my nose and smeared my tears over my eyelids with the backs of my hands.

  “That’s the least of your worries,” she said. “You have to get released first. Your therapist has seventy-two hours to determine if you’re a danger to yourself or others. So no more lunging over the desk to kill the good doctor. If you do get out, you’ll get taken in for questioning or arrested, depending on what the DA feels he has and, to be honest, whatever Dad decides he wants to do. He’s got every judge in L.A. in his pocket, but the media loves rich girls and violence. If you walk, it’ll look like we’ve gotten away with attempted murder. And just so you know, we’ve got some problems at home.”

  “What?”

  “Jonathan’s girlfriend disappeared from a party at Sheila’s last night. His car’s gone.”

  “He had a girlfriend?” I tapped my fingers against my thumb, counting. When did my baby brother turn sixteen? How long had I been high on flake and fucking? Shit, he was old enough to drive?

  “Theresa’s friend Rachel.”

  Theresa was my sister, and Rachel was, indeed, her friend. She hung around a lot. I’d never given her a thought.

  As if reading my mind, Margie continued. “I didn’t know about her and Jon either. So that’s why I’m here and not Quentin.”

  “I just want to talk to Deacon.”

  “I know. But maybe what you want isn’t what you need.” She took my hand. “When we’re done here, you’re having your orientation meeting with the hospital admin. Be nice. Be good. Okay?”

  “Will being nice get me out?”

  “It’ll increase the odds.”

  “Then I’m all over it.”

  five.

  The administrator smiled. She seemed genuine enough, but she was probably genuine with everyone, which made the whole act as fake as shit. Her brown hair was straight, but at the ends, I could see it was naturally curly. A little patch of eyebrow had begun to grow at the top of her nose. She wore a little wreath with a bell hanging from it on her lapel.

  “I’m Doctor Frances Ramone, but you can just call me Frances.”

  Apparently, we were all on a first-name basis in Westonwood.

  “You can call me Miss Drazen.”

  My joke had no effect on her that I could see. Being blind with a headache, who knew what was happening in my peripheral vision. On the other side of the glass walls, people played checkers and some asshole grumbled in a wheelchair. More windows decoratively barred against escape. Lightweight plastic chairs, great for throwing but not hurting. A television permanently set to beautiful scenes of nature, flowers, butterflies. And that was how rich kids disappeared into Westonwood. No TV. No internet. No phone.

  “That’s fine, Miss—”

  “I was kidding. Fiona’s fine.”

  “Are you okay, Fiona?”

  Was I okay? What kind of question was that?

  “I have a headache, and I’m a little grouchy, if you don’t mind.”

  “Your medication’s worn off.”

  Was her smile smug? Or just a smile?

  “I need you to hear this and retain it, so I preferred you have all your faculties. Okay?” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “You’re here so we can determine if you’re fit to be questioned for attempted murder, and if you had your faculties about you when you committed the act.”

  Though my crying was silent and controlled, Frances flipped me a tissue. I dabbed my eyes.

  “Allegedly,” I said.

  “Allegedly. You have a lawyer you can discuss this with further.”

  “Yes.”

  She put a piece of paper in front of me. There was a list on it with little boxes to the left of each item, and she ticked them off as she spoke. “We don’t allow you to use the phones or fax except to talk to lawyers. Even family calls come through us. We have some rules here, and the rules are tailored specifically for you. Everyone’s comfort here is important. You will be provided everything you need from medicine to meals. You are not allowed any of your own. This is to prevent substance abuse. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  She ticked one of the boxes with her pen. I pressed my legs together and jammed my hands between my knees. I was so tense. I wanted to be in the common room having a goddamn conversation with the backgammon set.

  “You will have two sessions per day with Doctor Chapman. He’s agreed to keep seeing you, despite your attack this morning.”

  I nodded. I didn’t like what I’d done. Not the attack on Deacon or Dr. Chapman. It wasn’t me.

  “Violence won’t fly a second time. We don’t like to use our solitary rooms, but we will if we think you’re a danger to yourself or others. You’re a compulsory patient, but we can send you to a state facility.”

  I looked her in the eye for the first time. Their color was indeterminate, somewhere between light brown and blue and green. She held my gaze.

  “Is that what you told my father?” I considered telling her I’d go wherever my father wanted me, and if he wanted me in Westonwood, then that was where I’d stay. You didn’t cross Daddy. Period.

  She changed the subject. “There’s a light switch in your room. It doesn’t work after lights out at ten. Most residents go to bed earlier.” Tick. “You will be given medication according to a schedule. You must take it as directed.” Tick.

  “I’d like an Advil or something.” I needed a Vicodin, but I knew asking for it would get marked on my paper, and I wanted out, even if it meant getting questioned by the gestapo.

  “After we’re done here, I’ll get you something for the headache.” She tapped her pen, asking for attention to her list. “You will not touch any of the patients or staff.” Tick. “Your bedroom door must remain open during the day unless your doctors or staff ask that it be closed.” Tick. “You must get to your sessions on time. We consider punctuality a sign of your commitment to the process here. Two late appearances mean you are not fully committed.” Tick. “And your performance in the bathroom this morning will not be repeated.”

  “What performance?”

  “Specific to you, there will be no masturbation.”

  I laughed. “Are you fucking with me?”

  “Next time we hear you through the door, we’re coming in. We are a private institution. Accredited, yes, but we do get to custom-tailor the Westonwood experience to each patient. In your case, sex is a distraction that is strictly forbidden.”

  “Lady, I can make myself come by breathing a certain way, okay? And shame’s not my thing. Privacy isn’t a prerequisite; I’ll come right in front of you. So that rule is a fucking joke.”

  “I assure you, it’s not a joke.” She slid back her chair. “Your meals are scheduled. Mark will take you to the dining hall.”

  ***


  Mark, the orderly, was one of those guys who was trouble outside his job. He had on the same pale blue uniform as the rest of the orderlies, but his goatee was fingered to a point and his hair was shaved over the ears. The top flopped down, but I knew he made it stick up on the weekends. I tried not to look too closely, but I couldn’t help it. He had an empty piercing hole in his nostril. He glanced at me, and I turned away.

  I held my tray in the center of the dining room, trying to decide between seats that all looked the same. The room was done up in modern grey and white, same as everything else. Even the Christmas decorations were simple brushed-chrome snowflakes hanging from the windows. The linoleum shined, the paint scuffs were removed nightly, and the chairs were Scandinavian, but it still looked and smelled like a mental ward.

  A group of three ate on the patio. It rained on the other side of the overhang. They laughed and smoked cigarettes as if they were at the Wilshire Country Club, not Westonwood. They were my age, more or less, with smooth skin and trim bodies. One girl saw me and waved me over. I stood in the doorway.

  “Fiona Drazen,” she said. “Heard you were here.”

  They all looked at me. I waved. Their faces seemed familiar. The girl in question had her bare feet curled on the chair and a lit cigarette in the fingers that rested on her knee.

  “Hey.” One of the young men, with tight curly hair and a knowing slouch, raised his hand to me. “Good to see you again.”

  I didn’t know him. Had I fucked him? Was I supposed to remember? I couldn’t even remember the last two days.

  “Hey.” I nodded at him, then the rest.

  The girl’s shirt buckled under her crouch, and I saw the curve of her breast. I remembered her. It had been a weekend in her mother’s time share—two days in an ocean of skin. I barely remembered their three faces from that party. Karen. Karen Hinnley. Her mother was a producer.

  “Ojai,” I said. “Fuck, man. What a weekend.”

  “It was…” She rolled her eyes as if at a loss for words.

  “Beautiful,” I finished for her.

  “Damn,” said the guy with the curly hair, “we should do it again.”

  “Yeah.” Karen nodded to a boy with blond hair who couldn’t have been a day over fifteen. “You gotta come this time.”