Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  I paused at the bathroom threshold. Punishment was next on my list. Cutting—cutting girls, that is—was my preferred way of administration, since I abhorred carving delicate flesh. Though mutually beneficial for parties involved, it wasn’t the transgression, but rather its inhumanness that made me dispense with the practice.

  I stepped into the Kohler walk-in shower cubicle. The door closed solidly behind me, a testimony to the quality of the American-made curved glass and frameless booth. I pulled the lever on the main wall outward to turn on the water, twisting it left into the sector mutedly delineated red. The heat of the water startled me, but I didn’t try to dodge the rainfall cascade or to shut it down. Felt as though hot needles penetrated the fresh cut on my arm. My eyes closed, I gritted my teeth and took it. On the edge of masochism, adrenaline screamed in my veins like kids shrieking on the playground. After five minutes or so, I twisted the lever all the way in the opposite direction until the stream felt like needles of ice piercing my body. Within seconds my skin rippled into gooseflesh, and my breathing became swift and harsh, just shy of doomed hyperventilation. The icy sting chased away the clinging guilt, which now circled the drain at my feet. You fucking hit her. Cleansed, my body endeavored absorbing the freezing cold of the grueling deluge. I forgot about minutes and hours. Time blurred and stretched, and I bore the razor-wire knot pain for a good while until my endurance relented, heart rate dropping to a dangerous level. Seeking control of my body again, I progressively turned the controller back, reaching a temperate position.

  I couldn’t say my own name even if I wanted to. Palms flat against the grey-veined marble wall, I let the lukewarm water wash over me. Gradually, my heart ceased hammering against the inside of my ribcage and my breathing regulated itself to something approaching reliability. “Elena,” I finally managed to sigh. I love you. Three little words, three outrageously clichéd words.

  Perhaps it was the calmant or Swedish efficiency, but she’d slept through the day. My eyes traced the curvaceousness of her breasts, committing every exquisite detail of her form to memory. I was a terrible waiter, which surely had something to do with the fact that I was born prematurely. Five weeks. So the pattern is set in stone.

  Bruised lip and all, Elena looked like an adorable, beautiful mess, and despite the guilt and regret I simply wanted to bang her like Rocco Siffredi and Manuel Ferrara altogether. Doesn’t sound charitable, does it? To stem the flow of indecent images, I distanced myself from the bed.

  I unpacked her bag, arranged her clothes in garment-specific piles before adding them to the designer-stocked walk-in closet. When done, I looked down at Elena in the late-afternoon sun. Sleep-warm and cheek pressed into the pillow, her smooth hair was a tangled mess across the pillow’s landscape. My eyes went over her face, along the side of her mouth where her lip should have had a nasty split. Thank God it was almost healed.

  I shrugged on my jacket at 6 PM, scooted over and bent down. “Sweetheart, it’s time to wake up now.” I brushed a stray lock of hair from her face and offered her a rueful smile as her eyes opened.

  She glanced up at me, clasping the sheets to her chest as she sat up, keeping herself covered. Fear filled the dreamy teal of her eyes.

  I actually did feel compassion for the girl before me. I could guess what she was thinking—being at the mercy of a monster—and rubbed my chin. “Feeling a hair better?” Even though I saw her fingers tighten, I still went for a peck on the cheek. When my lips touched her skin, I was afforded a brief glimpse into the world of necrophilia. Never had a girl remained cold and oblique to this extent with me. I realized that a woman’s unresponsiveness is like a kiss of death.

  I was officially at a loss for words. Willed my fists to relax and focused on how to handle the situation. I was a snob when it came to courtesy, and I always erupted when people wouldn’t express it. I didn’t do that, though. Because my mind couldn’t seem to formulate anything suitable to inspire confidence, in the end, I settled for dickishness.

  Elena Anderson

  The Drama-Free Decision

  One eye popped open and then the other, and consciousness slowly returned. Bleary eyed, I tried to decipher what woke me up. The room wasn’t fully dark, the curtains on the many windows drawn, except for one, allowing daylight to filter through. My trembling intensified and my head fell to my shoulder. Realizing it wasn’t just a dream, my painted eyelids felt heavy, tears teetering on them. I anticipated the blow, the smack to the head, the kick, the punch, so I braced myself.

  There was weight on the bed, the mattress adjusting as a figure moved closer. A tug on the cover that I’d clutched, a cold breeze as it was lifted away from me. “Shall we try this once more, Elena? I’ve been known to hit people who couldn’t express courtesy, and in absence of a reasonable response it’s highly likely I would do it again,” I heard him say, as if from a long way off. “It’s customary for an educated person like yourself to respond to the question of a fellow human being. Once more, then?”

  Rebellion was a tried-and-tested recipe for disaster. Deference might do the trick and get him off my case, I realized.

  My limp head sprung up. “Feeling better, Alexander.”

  “Was that so hard?”

  “No,” I admitted. A scent of freshly baked bread pervaded the air, overpowering the hint of spearmint that rolled off my captor. My eyes searched. Contemporary display shelves, huge marble fireplace, cozy sitting area with complementary home entertainment system, a round table for two—tucked away in corner—on which a feast had been laid out.

  “Hungry, love?”

  I nodded.

  “Come. Water first.” I caught a strong waft of bodywash as he led me.

  I drank ice water before greedily gulping my champagne. Anything was better than going through this ordeal sober. It was a restaurant quality meal, albeit without a dessert course. Whatever facts Alexander was spouting off seemed lost to me. Notwithstanding the alcohol abuse, I felt lost, drained, exhausted, and I could barely keep my balance on the chair. Then the ground was coming up to meet me, warping upward, and my eyes unfocused. Feeling faint, blood started singing in my ears. I reasoned with myself not to pass out, or he would skewer me. “You were saying?”

  “Why do you have a martyr streak in you? I know about your past, Ms. D’Souza.” His eyes squinted with suspicion. “I even know about Peter’s death. Good riddance. But why do you still torture yourself? Why not grab life by the balls?”

  I sat frozen in my seat, stared blankly at him. Oh God, he’d orchestrated the entire thing to give me a life lesson? I’d rather be raped than listen to this nonsense.

  “Look, my little spitfire. We are what we are, a product of our past, but we don’t have to be a prisoner of it.”

  I tried to stitch a sentence—a proper answer—together, but only a few words came out in a muttered voice. “I-I don’t feel well.”

  He gave me one of those cheerless smiles. “You drank too fast. I understand why you wouldn’t want to stay sober.”

  Surprise, surprise, nothing escaped this monster. I gathered all the shreds of defiance within me. “You’re a coward. Chicken! You might as well go cluck in the streets.”

  “Elena?” he rasped sweetly. “Why don’t you just admit you enjoyed it?”

  “Why do I…I…why do you care? The damage is done, therein lies the problem.”

  “The damage? What damage? You didn’t fight me when my fingers did their magic inside you. Not once. You looked me right in the eyes and came. You’re no better than me.” His voice heaved with emotion. “You want it as much as I do. Is it so fucking unbelievable I desire you? Have you looked in a mirror lately?” He illustrated his frustration by coupling the words with little shakes of his head.

  “I didn’t like it,” I huffed angrily.

  “Elena, you liked it. You came.”

  “That doesn’t mean I liked it.”

  “You liked it, sweetheart. You liked being fucked by my hand. A cock feels much
better, you know?”

  “It’s not like that!”

  “Yeah!” he roared. My mild reproof turned his voice raw. “It’s fucking like that. You’re mine now, understood?”

  “I hate everything you’ve got in store for me!” I screamed. “I hated it. I hate you. I fucking hate you! It doesn’t give you the right to own me!”

  “Well, baby. It kinda’ does, actually.”

  “No!” I snarled. “It doesn’t! You’re nothing but a rap—,”

  “Don’t, Elena,” his hiss interrupted. “Don’t you fucking dare use that word unless I’ve fucked you good and sore against your will.”

  My dream—the one in which we were sweaty, red-faced, with mussed up hair and throats raw from screaming each other’s name—came to mind. I licked my dry lips. “Why are you doing this? With your physique, money, and intelligence, women will happily date you,” I told him belligerently. I’d managed to keep the line about his cute dimpled smile out of my statement.

  “But you’re not one of those women, are you?”

  All of a sudden pictures of other women kissing him zipped through my mind, making me realize I was another one of his trivial conquests. He’d dispose of me as soon as he was done playing house. Feeling my stomach heave, I clutched my belly and gave him an apologetic glance. “I’m…Alexander…I’m going to be sick.”

  “Ice water. Drink.” His quiet tone and sparse words denoted that he’d lost the wherewithal to fence words with me.

  When I felt my stomach wrench again, bringing up the nasty bile, I endeavored to place blame somewhere it wasn’t due. “I think I’m going to v-v-vomit. It’s aaallll your fault,” I slurred accusingly.

  “Fuck. The painkiller must still be in your system.”

  I shrugged as I got up, which was too much for my unsteady body; I almost fell face-first into his arms. He caught me around the waist, clearly worried. My head spun, got dizzier by the second as I realized he was carrying me. His arm was so warm and felt so strong around me. I couldn’t say if his presence or the invasion of privacy unnerved me more, and the nausea and dizziness I’d been holding back took care of the rest. With a heaving stomach, I collapsed in front of the toilet. Vomit splattered onto the seat and Alexander’s shoe.

  He leapt back with a snort of disgust, out of my line of vision, and barked, “Shit, that’s disgusting,” with no liquid contempt.

  “I told you I was feeling sick,” I wretchedly mumbled in a tone designed to make him go away. Leaning heavily on the toilet, even I could hear the hint of desperation. “Go away. Just leave me alone.”

  Through the haze of nausea and tears, I felt him behind me. He held my hair back, guiding my head toward the bowl, and waited patiently while I tried to free myself. “Stop fighting me, you’ll get the damn floor dirty, too.”

  I knew that. I knew he was trying to help me. I just didn’t want to be touched, not right now, not after what he’d seen, but my strength seemed to be escaping along with the contents of my stomach. I kept wrenching, and when I finally finished throwing up, I’d been bringing up nothing but bile for some time. My throat and mouth were burning. My nostrils were full of the noisome smell of my own mess, and my arms were shaking. I couldn’t think of a worse moment in my life. I was humiliated, lost, scared, with my stomach tying itself into sickening knots and my brain fogged by white noise. I wanted to die. I wanted to sink into the ground, away from Alexander’s judging gaze, from his detached revulsion at the mess I’d made.

  “Get up. Let’s get you out of these filthy clothes and into the shower,” I heard an authoritative tone, as if he had a clear agenda and I was making it tough for him to stick to his plan. He doubled over to grab a wad of toilet paper and wiped my mouth, harshly. “You’ll rinse your mouth underneath the stream.”

  I stood up, allowing him to lead me to the walk-in shower.

  “Off. Take it off.” It being a gift from Sara, he had no business tugging at my Alexander McQueen knit chenille dress with irreverence. I reacted violently, gathering strength to fight him as he undressed me, but my fists were too tiny compared to his. The slaps interspersed with scratches were almost comical; he didn’t move, he just leaned closer and hissed, “Get in the shower. Now.”

  I didn’t budge. He reached for both my arms and pulled me under the flow. “Fucking shit.” He was angry because he’d joined me fully clothed under the streaming water to make the fighting stop. Because I refused to stand still, he held my wrists and tapped my shoulder. “Stop it!” he glowered, his rage crackling like electricity. “Do you remember what happened this morning? I can hit much harder than that, Elena.” He freed my wrists and I allowed him to direct my movements. My fighting spirit was gone, terror reigned supreme, and so from here on I obeyed, following each of his commands.

  Bared fully to his roving eyes, I saw the unadulterated lust written across his face. No longer meeting my gaze, his eyes dropped down to my exposed breasts, then to the juncture of my thighs before moving a little higher. The unconcealed desire in his eyes and the method of his appraisal; dark grey eyes traveling over my collarbone, my breasts, and across my stomach made me feel more vulnerable than I’d ever felt in my life. Fat thighs. I squeezed my legs together as tightly as I could.

  When he turned off the water, I remained huddled against the heated wall. Tears kept spilling, pooling at my feet. Stepping away from me, I watched him remove his jacket, his vest, his tie, and when he started on his shoes and socks, he cursed. He added everything to the pile beside the toilet containing my dress then reached for towels.

  “Come here, Elena. Dry yourself,” he agreeably allowed. Apprehensive as I was, I found his tone quite sensual and sweet. A wet slap of bare feet as I moved, I didn’t hesitate to accept the oversized towel and wrapped it around me like a bathsheet. My long hair dripped down my back and more water puddled on the floor, but he didn’t scold me. Looking at me, he began unbuttoning his shirt. I expected the worst. No caresses, no kisses, just glacial walls and drenched bodies.

  I watched raptly, with heavy lids as he finished popping the buttons of his shirt from their holes. A vague, involuntary moan fluttered up my throat at the sight of him rubbing at the swollen ridge of a hot red scratch I’d put on his forearm. I watched his upper arms that were ropy with muscles contract. I admired the slant of his thick, black hair brushing over his high forehead, the firm shape of his arms and the smooth dip of his strong chest. Begrudgingly, I acknowledged he was a handsomest man I’d ever seen. And, he had two tattoos. Could he be any hotter? With a third tattoo, maybe.

  Looking him in the eyes seemed as if he was searching for secrets into mine. I didn’t want to surrender my thoughts to him. Gripped with panic, I looked away from him. “Are you going to rape me?”

  “That’s a truly tempting offer, Elena, but one I must decline. I’m afraid you’re far too fragile for what I have in mind, and also, the guilt might weigh a tad heavy on my shoulders. As much as I’d like—nay—love to affix my colors on you, I hear that good things come to those who wait.” His smile was humorless. “Thanks though, it’s very sweet of you to offer.”

  Knowing it was useless to contend, I remained still, maintaining eye contact. Like a jungle cat honing in on its prey, he came closer. As much as I was glad he hadn’t removed his trousers, his visible erection worried me just as much. Gently, he pushed my wet hair away from my face. I felt him pulling on the knot of my towel until it fell open. I stepped back against a wall, feeling cold and vulnerable.

  I swallowed and said, “Just get it over with.”

  “That isn’t the plan, baby. You have one month, let’s see how well you can obey.”

  His tall form cast a menacing shadow over me, reminding me of the unjust contrast between my nakedness and his near-clothed state. Quivering like a plucked guitar string, I sobbed quietly and kept my eyes downcast.

  “You’re shuddering like coming after hours of orgasm denial. Do you know how beautiful you look right now? You’re driving me
up the wall, you fucking prick tease.”

  “Don’t hit me. Please, don’t hurt me.” I burst into sobs and wails, my body convulsing against him—against his erection. I was a total mess, how could any of this excite him?

  “I’m sorry.” Then I felt him, his warm palm resting on my forehead. Felt a scratch of light stubble against my temple as he burrowed his face into my hair. “I’m sorry I hit you.” Iciness and malice gone, I could feel the warmth of sincerity in his thick voice. He pulled back. “Want some warmth?” To hold him off, my hands flew to his mauled forearms. “If you scratch me again, my pet, I’ll go the distance. It’s always best to declaw the cat, isn’t it?” That smirk of his widened, his eyes hooded and dark. Shifting to stand closer, he pinned me to his tall frame, and held me to him while I shivered in his arms.

  More warmth. My body tensed reflexively as he wrapped his arms around my waist like a cocoon. Our bodies slid easily against each other. I could feel the soaked fabric of his trousers clinging to my bare skin. Could feel his hands running over my backside. To my utter embarrassment and vexation, I felt treacherous warmth seeping into my body, sparking desire wherever his fingers trailed, sending tingling signals down between my thighs. A little bit of saliva pooled in my mouth at the sight of his muscular chest flexing. I felt a prickle of sweat forming on my sternum. Sick, isn’t it, how I liked being controlled by him?

  I looked him dead in the eyes and said, “I’ll follow your rules, all of them, Alexander.”

  Taking my hand, he placed it on his erection. “Grab it, Elena. You’re making me so horny.”

  Out of curiosity, I squeezed him once. He felt warm like lava and hard like marble. I gave another tentative squeeze and he groaned, tendons cording his neck.

  “Is…that okay?” I asked.

  He chuckled deep in his throat. “Good girl,” he whispered in my ear, nipping the earlobe. He slid his hand over my breasts to pinch and roll one hard nipple. “You’re so eager. I can work with this.” Then his velvety lips were on my neck, nuzzling and nibbling and planting exquisite kisses across a tender part of my skin. “Say you want this, baby. Just say yes.”