by P. J. Fox
She did.
“I have two of the brands, identical. I keep one in the freezer, so it’s ready in case I need it—and this is the first time I ever have needed it, by the way—and the other with the fireplace tools. I did burn something; I burned that piece of meat.”
There was a perfectly trimmed cut of what looked like filet mignon sitting underneath the ottoman. The strangest sight, Belle was quite sure, that she had ever seen. The brand, the one he’d heated, rested next to it. A faint aroma of burning meat still drifted in the air.
Belle shifted, and sat up. She didn’t want to be near him; she couldn’t believe she was sitting on him. She felt disgusting, her sinuses clogged from crying and snot all over her face. Her hair was a mess, knotted like a rat’s nest and sticking every which direction, and after wiping her eyes her hands came away smeared with the eyeliner and mascara that now covered her face.
And she was…wet.
With dawning horror, she realized that a third smell competed with that of meat and burning wood. The acrid tang of urine. She’d been so terrified that she’d peed herself.
The top of the ottoman was soaked, and urine dripped down onto the floor.
She shrieked in mingled dismay and horror, and tried to twist away from the man who’d done this to her. She wanted to get as far away from him as possible and, moreover, she couldn’t bear that Ash—that anyone—should see her like this. Damaged. Disgusting. Broken.
She started to get up and then, her head swimming, she collapsed. He caught her.
“Please,” she murmured, giving up and staring at the floor, “go away.”
She had, she knew, reached the nadir. The extremis of all that was awful in life. The only thing left was for the earth to crack open and swallow her whole. The fires of Hell might—no, definitely would—be preferable to this. Belle was a person who, from childhood, had always been in control. Always kept things, including herself, neat and clean and tidy. She followed the rules, never dressed inappropriately, and passed in her homework on time. Every assignment, every time. She berated herself for anything less than a perfect score—on anything. She’d learned, from childhood, to be strong for others and to never let anyone see her cry. She’d always been the adult, parenting her parents.
Even since her arrival here, she’d fought for control. Being rude to her captor; taunting him, even. Even to the point of madness, knowing that he held the power of life and death over her. Or perhaps because he did, she had to push him. Deciding that she wanted to bed him.
And now…she was a mess. An absolute, revolting, disgusting mess.
When her high school boyfriend broke up with her, she’d done her grieving alone in the closet. When her feet bled, while she was still dancing, she grinned and bore the pain. She’d danced an entire performance, once, on a fractured ankle. For so long now she’d been the perfect child, the one no one needed to worry about. She never lost control. She had a horror, beyond the power of words to describe, of anyone seeing her lose control.
But tonight, doing whatever—this—was, control had been ripped away from her as easily as a determined cleaner might dust away cobwebs from a bookshelf. As easily, and as thoughtlessly. Her carefully built walls had turned out to be nothing more than filament. And she’d become—this, this weeping, messy thing—in the presence of the one person, the one person for whom she needed to maintain control the most. The man who, from the first time she’d felt his eyes on him, had given her an obscure sense of threat.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because I’m disgusting!” she wailed. Artifice gone, she told him the truth. “No one will ever find me attractive, ever again, and I can’t believe—I can’t believe—I—and I hate you!”
She could think of no more hostile, unloving act than stripping someone of their last protections, of taunting them by reminding them that they were dependent on you and then showing how easily you could hurt them. Hurt them and make them feel worthless and—
“But you’re not worthless. And I didn’t hurt you,” he reminded her gently.
“You invaded my mind!”
He considered her words. They still sat together, on the floor, him holding her against him like a child. Like a lover. Like two people who wanted to be together. She was too exhausted, and sickened to move. “Yes,” he said finally. “Because I want what you want: intimacy. And this…this is how people like me get it. I’d planned on waiting, on introducing you slowly to the…things I like.” He paused again. He stroked her bare shoulder absently, as he thought. “But the kinder I was, the more you worried about what was to come.
“It wasn’t an act. I do have manners. And I do mean what I say, that your time apart from me is your own. But this fear of the future was between us, all the time, something I recognized but you were afraid to address. Out of fear, I suppose, of provoking this.
“So,” he finished, “now you know.”
“I thought you were going to kill me.”
“I would never hurt you. Not truly.”
“But you did hurt me.” He’d terrorized her. She’d never been so frightened in her entire life. Of anything. Had never imagined that she could feel like that, that terror could just—take over her mind. Leave her insensible. Make her pee herself. “And now I’m disgusting.”
“You’re beautiful,” he corrected her. “And you’re not a victim.”
She bristled at his words. Not a victim? But he continued. “This kind of submission is a gift. And it’s the person being hurt who has the power: to arouse and, ultimately, to accept the person hurting them. I don’t know why I am the way I am, Belle; I only know that this is the only way I have left of connecting with another person. And I want…I want you. Like this. Right now. Completely vulnerable. As I am to you,” he added, surprising her. “I’ve shown you what I’m really like and what I need. There’s nothing between us now.”
She gazed into his eyes. He was a monster. He’d shown himself to be a monster. So why couldn’t she convince herself to believe her own words? She hated him—no, should hate him—no, did hate him. She didn’t know how she felt. About him, or about anything else. He was right about one thing: she’d only known him for a few days, and already she knew him better than she’d ever known anyone else.
And she’d…released something, tonight, she realized. Something that had been coiled up inside her for so long that she’d almost forgotten it was there. A burden she’d grown so used to carrying that she’d long ago accepted the extra weight as part of herself. The anxiety, the hurt, the fear. Of what would happen if she lost control. If she failed.
She’d ruin everything. Her life, her parents’ lives. They depended on her, more and more, as the years went by—for pride, for something to do and to look forward to, for some hope of a future. She was their golden child, and the burden of being the golden child was almost too much to bear. She had to succeed; if not at dance, then at something else. Something that fulfilled them. That gave her mother something to talk about at the hair salon and her father something to talk about at the bar.
Whose dreams were these?
Tonight, she hadn’t been in control. She hadn’t relied on another person like that since she was in diapers. He’d forced her, yes, but as much as she hated to admit that he was right he was: she was alright. She’d humiliated herself, that was all. And—had she really?
She’d been scared, because he’d wanted her to be. And, in her fear, she’d given him exactly what he wanted. Needed. She wasn’t some prisoner of war; he wasn’t doing this to hurt her. If he were, he’d have actually branded her. He was doing this…to savor her reaction, as a vampire might savor blood. Was there shame in being human?
She felt…oddly empowered.
She considered the feeling, testing it, surprised to be having it. And yet, the truth was undeniable. Her reaction was important enough to him that he’d focused all of his attention on it…on her…and she’d given him what no one else could. He’d stripped away her l
ayers, and he wanted her. Just like this.
She kissed him.
THIRTY-THREE
She was barely conscious of what she was doing, only of a need that took her as much by surprise as the realization that what he’d done to her had been liberating.
Giving up control had been liberating. That was the right word. For once, for the first time, she wasn’t in charge—of herself, of anything. She’d responded, not according to some internal rulebook but on instinct. There were no expectations of her, save that she be herself.
He responded instantly to her touch, forcing her down onto the floor as he kissed her back with an almost frightening intensity. He too was like a spring, tightly wound, finally released. His mouth, his hands, were hard. Demanding. He explored her body, every square inch of skin. His touch was nothing like the gentle caresses of the night before. This was a brute domination that spoke of unreasoning need.
And she responded in turn, astonished at herself and just as unable to stop. She’d been attracted to men before—she’d been a virgin, not a corpse—but never like this. In the past, she’d even thought that certain men might be the one. She’d laid in bed at night, imagining their touch. But this…wasn’t a choice. In an instant, she wanted him like she’d never wanted anyone. He stroked her, kissing her—her mouth, her cheek, the side of her neck, her breasts—as she fumbled with his belt buckle and forced his pants down over his hips.
She was still sore from the night before and the pain of his assault made her gasp, but need overwhelmed pain and she arched her hips up to meet his. She didn’t even know what she was doing, couldn’t anticipate her own actions until after she’d done them. She buried her hands in his hair, clawing at his scalp, clawing his back as he used her for his own pleasure. He bit her on the shoulder, hard, and she screamed. But not in pain.
With nothing but bare floor underneath her, the act was especially punishing. He drove into her, making her gasp. Everything hurt. She didn’t care.
She moaned, arching her back.
He buried his face in her hair, and the room was silent. The fire was beginning to die down. Slowly, their breathing returned to normal. Belle wasn’t sure what had happened, or how to feel about her own actions. Whatever had happened the night before, there could be no argument that she’d initiated this.
What had she betrayed, in doing so?
Part of her felt like she’d been living in this castle for months. The grim realities of her capture, the auction at the club…of school, and the life waiting for her back home seemed increasingly like unpleasant dreams. She hadn’t thought about her paper that was due all day.
Who was that person, and would she ever be that person again?
He propped himself up on his shoulder, looking down at her. His eyes were black in the firelight.
“What are you thinking about?”
“The future,” she said.
“According to popular theory, the need for control over other human beings—or over a specific other human being—indicates a fear of change. Of unpredictability. The concomitant acts of kidnap and confinement represent an unconscious attempt to anchor their own psyche in some sort of stable regimen.”
“How much did you pay for that analysis?”
He smiled slightly. “It was free. As a narcissist, I have a near unlimited interest in my own deviance.” And then, more seriously, “I’ve read a number of books, over the years. Some to understand myself, but most to help me control others more effectively. Lovers, if you can call them that. Business associates, rivals.”
“And what am I?”
“A first.” He ran his finger down her shoulder.
“And what of the psychology of the victims?”
“There are the overt challengers, who fight. The covert challengers, who attempt to manipulate the situation through apparent consent. The submissives, who befriend their captors—or rivals, as the case may be.”
He got up and, picking up his robe, walked over to the sideboard. He poured himself a drink. “This category,” he continued, sipping the inch of amber liquid as he stood with his back to her, “is the most common, I think, in business.
“Most people are sheep, attuned to finding the leader. And the leader, often, is the one—or is perceived to be the one—who steamrolls them without a second thought. Or shows himself capable of doing so.”
Belle sat up and wrapped herself in the blanket.
“Then there are the internalizers: people who convince themselves that by hurting them you’ve actually done something beneficial. More than one man has approached me, eager to do business, after I’ve stripped him of every possession he owned.”
He turned. “Would you like a drink?”
She shook her head. And which category was she, she wondered?
He returned, lounging on the couch, apparently satisfied. She continued to sit at his feet. Part of her wanted nothing more than to relax, sink into the rosy afterglow of replete sensation. To drift, and not think—about anything.
But part of her couldn’t stop thinking.
About everything.
“There are men,” Ash mused, “who fit the stereotype. Men who seek control over another human being as a means of bolstering their own brittle psyches. Or men who are rich, and bored. But the vast majority of men are simply…normal. Not the sort of men that one might expect, to be sure. Because despite what, for example, most of the anti-prostitution groups claim, there’s little clinical evidence to show that wanting to own your own woman is inherently deviant or that the impulse is linked to other psychological deficiencies.
“Women make jokes about cavemen all the time, capturing women and dragging them by the hair back into their caves. When Rhett Butler carries Scarlett O’Hara up the stairs kicking and screaming, it’s romantic. Women are, by and large, attracted to the image of the alpha male—as are men. And the less than politically correct truth is that seeing what one wants and simply taking it, society’s rules be damned, is an expression of that impulse.
“The most taboo elements of society are also the most misunderstood. Men who buy sex—and I’m one of them—are statistically more likely to reject rape culture, to say that prostitution should be legal, to view prostitution as a form of female empowerment and to express no reservations about marrying a prostitute.”
He sipped his drink.
She waited.
“One of your American actors said, once, that he wasn’t paying for sex; he was paying for the woman to leave the next morning. I think that’s a trite, and socially acceptable, but ultimately incorrect and highly anti-woman explanation. Most of the men I know, who pay for sex, want more than sex. They want companionship. They might be afraid of rejection, or have some physical disability that makes them unattractive to women. They want sex, yes, but they also want someone to talk to. And for the most part, contrary to what your feminist groups would have you believe, they like women.”
“Then why aren’t they married?”
“Why aren’t you married to all of your friends?”
“You’re saying it’s—what—friendship?”
“I’m saying that it’s not as black and white as we’d all like to believe. The mind is complex, multi-faceted, and dark. I know men who’ve bought women and killed them, and men who’ve bought women and married them.”
He wasn’t wrong. Prince Florian decided to marry Snow White after seeing her lying in state. Presumably dead, yet still…juicy. Marry, in this case, being the ultimate Disney euphemism. Most of the world didn’t even know that the prince had a name; he was a non entity throughout the film, appearing only to admire the heroine’s corpse and cart her off to points unknown. He appeared only twice in the film, supposedly because he was too hard to animate. A number of different plot devices, which would have included him more, were abandoned as simply too technically challenging.
Which raised an interesting point: the man who’d do such a thing was, whether in fairy tales or real life, simply too har
d to fathom. Difficult to sketch and even harder to flesh out. Impossible even, and so he was abandoned.
Even Florian wasn’t the man’s real name; in the original storyboards for the film he was called Frederick.
The Beast imprisoned Belle, her own namesake, until she fell in love with him. For, as the saying went, who could ever learn to love a beast. Who indeed?
And what had really, in the end, been so unlovable about him? He had something of a temper, but many people did. He was educated, and erudite; he defended her from wolves and gifted her with a beautiful library. The gift itself was impressive enough, she supposed, but what in her mind had always made the gesture romantic was its inherent acceptance of who his love really was. He didn’t woo her with flowers, or chocolates, or the things that women were supposed to like. He gave her what she, the individual, truly wanted.
Who could not love a man like that?
“I had a paper due, yesterday.”
“If money were no object,” he asked, curious, “would you go back to school?”
“Honestly, no. Yes. I don’t know,” she finished, defeated.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
“When I was sixteen,” she found herself telling him, “my best friend participated in an orgy. Her name was Sarah. And I drove her home.”
“Was, because she’s no longer with us or was, because she’s no longer your best friend?”
“The latter.” Belle leaned against the couch, staring into the embers. The fire had all but died. “Sarah and I…drifted apart. Not because of the orgy, though; because she thought I was a goody-goody. And boring. I never judged her for her choices, but in the end, she judged me for mine.
“A class I took, my first year at college, was about human sexuality. One of the studies we read indicated that almost ten percent of teenaged girls had participated in some sort of group sex situation and of that ten percent, most had been exposed to either pornography or sexual abuse or both. More than half of the girls interviewed for the study reported having been pressured into participating and almost half reported that no condom was used during their last group sex encounter.”
