Happy Ever After - Volume 1: A Novel of Horror and Suspense

by Matt Shaw

  Out Of The Comfort Zone

  Eventually he went downstairs to prepare dinner for us. I thought he’d never leave me alone. I can still taste him. I can still feel his rough tongue on my tongue. I feel sick. I’m thankful to whatever God exists that he stopped there and didn’t try and take things further.

  Forget about that though. I’m one step closer to freedom – one step closer to being with my mum and dad again. It’s been so long since I’ve been outside, I’m even starting to miss my job and that’s saying something!

  He trusts me now. Not completely but at least it’s a step in the right direction again. I just can’t afford to take any steps backwards again. Keep out of those restraints. Get myself more time to wander around the house how I please without him following me every step of the way.

  He’s left the bedroom door open. I won’t leave the room yet though. It’s too obvious – like he is inviting me to try and run again. Testing me. I won’t fall for it. I won’t undo all the good work I’ve already done. The thought of kissing him for nothing sends a cold shiver down my spine. Stop thinking about it – it’ll only make it harder if I have to kiss him again although I do hope to be out of here before that becomes a possibility.

  I move off the bed, on which I am still sitting, and go back to the wardrobe, filled with clothes. So much blue and black, where is the variety? I dread to look at the shoes he has chosen. I half expect to find Dr Martins or Caterpillar boots – picked out in different colours to try and compliment the hideous dresses he has purchased.

  It’s a shame we can’t leave the house. We could have had a nice day in town, exchanging everything for clothes that are halfway decent. Ooh. I can hear him coming up the stairs. Quick, fake interest in the clothes again. Pretend not to hear him. Pretend that you weren’t listening out for his return.

  “Dinner’s cooking.”

  Great. I have to get out of here. I can’t live the rest of my life with the same boring routine. Wake up, breakfast, have a chat, dinner, have a chat, tea, have a chat, bed. I don’t see how he thinks this will work.

  “Have you found a favourite yet?” he’s referring to the dresses that line the rack in front of where I am standing.

  “I like them all. Maybe I’ll spend an afternoon trying them on if you are ever busy doing something else.” He may pretend to be busy, but I know he’ll just be in the other room watching me through the CCTV.

  “Just let me know when and I’ll leave you to get on with it. Perhaps you could model the ones you like the best for me?”

  “I’d already thought about that for you.” I lie.

  The more I think about him watching me, eyeing my body up, the more it creeps me out. Even when he’s not in the same room, I know he’s close-by – like a predator lying in wait.

  There’s silence again. This keeps happening, a little small talk and then nothing. It’s uncomfortable and yet he just stands there with the same look on his face as though he’s judging me and sizing me up – waiting for me to take the initiative yet I have nothing to say. What do you say to someone who has you imprisoned against your will? Anything.

  Keep him happy.

  Keep him trusting.

  “What are we having for dinner?” I ask as I frantically try and think of something else to say.

  “It’s a surprise.” Just like that, he kills the conversation.

  Think. Think before I ruin my earlier attempts to gain his trust. Go back to using my sexuality. He responded to the kiss. Go back to that.

  “Was I out of line earlier, when I kissed you?” I ask.

  He smiles at me. “No. It was nice.”

  Nice for him perhaps.

  I move closer to him and stroke his chest through his shirt. “I wasn’t sure whether we were moving too fast. It just seemed like the right thing to do.”

  “I liked it.”

  He liked it.

  I shudder.

  “So did I.” I never used to be able to lie when I was growing up. I used to go a red colour in the cheeks – a colour that always gave me away. Recently though, I’ve been able to lie.

  With no warning he suddenly grabs me around my shoulders and pulls me closer to him before kissing me hard. I’m not ready. I try not to gag as his tongue trespasses into my mouth. Close my eyes. Pretend it’s someone else. Johnny Depp. It’s a lot to ask of my imagination to believe that this monster kisses in the same league as Johnny but I try. It helps me relax into the kiss. It helps me be more responsive to his flicking tongue. Keep my eyes shut. Keep my imagination working overtime.

  Much to my relief he stops and gently pushes me away, “I’m sorry,” he says.

  I’m not.

  “I didn’t mean to do that,” he continues.

  “It’s okay,” I purr another lie without going red in the face.

  I’m getting good at this - a real professional, “it was nice.” It wasn’t nice but I’m completely in control now. “How long is dinner going to be?” I ask. I know what I have to do. I have to go far out of my comfort zone to earn the final bit of trust between us. I just hope he believes me so it’s not a completely wasted gesture.

  “About forty-five minutes,” he replies.

  “Well,” I can’t believe I’m going to offer this but I need his trust and can’t think of another way of earning it as quickly, “Did you want me to try on the red dress for you?”

  He goes red in the face and a small schoolboy smile turns the corners of his mouth upwards, “Would you?”

  “Sure. It’ll be fun.”

  It won’t be fun. It’ll be uncomfortable but at least there’s a time limit on it – he’s always watching how much I eat and I know he won’t let dinner go to waste.

  “Unless you want to try it on after dinner?” he suggests.

  Fuck.

  Long Afternoon

  I stare into my stew and idly swirl my spoon around the mixture, upsetting the strange looking meat and vegetables. I can’t get this afternoon out of my head and how far I am going to have to go with him.

  “Do you not like it?” he asks.

  I look up at him. He isn’t looking at me. He’s too busy wolfing his food down with an unnecessary speed that’s sure to cause indigestion. Perhaps that’s no bad thing. If he has indigestion he may not try anything when I model the dress for him.

  “It’s a bit hot, I’m just cooling it down.” I lie. I’m not in the mood for eating. My appetite has gone. I can’t show him though. I need to pretend to be excited about this afternoon.

  “It tastes great,” he takes another mouthful.

  I need to pretend to be excited about the meal too. If not – that could put him in a bad mood. How did this happen? One minute I was in control and now I feel as though he has taken it away from me again.

  He looks up, “If you aren’t hungry I could always reheat it for you later on.”

  Stop being silly, take a mouthful. Drag out this meal for as long as possible so as to avoid going upstairs. I spoon a lump of meat into my mouth and chew slowly as though I’m savouring the taste.

  “What meat is it?” I ask, unsure.

  “My own secret recipe. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” He laughs.

  I don’t laugh. I don’t think he is joking.

  He continues to shovel more food into his mouth. Does he really like it that much he can’t get enough of it – or is he trying to eat it as fast as possible just to get upstairs with me? I dread to think. I take another small mouthful, even though it tastes completely alien to me.

  “You had me worried for a bit, yesterday,” he said with a mouthful, “I thought things weren’t going to work out between us even after all the careful planning I put in place.”

  Things aren’t going to work out between us.

  He pushes his plate to one side. I’ve hardly touched mine and yet he’s cleared his, “That was lovely.”

  My heart skips a beat. He’ll be ready to go upstairs soon. Stall him.

  “If it’s
just the two of us, with no one else to talk to or bother us, why can’t you let me know what your secret recipe is?” I ask hoping to engage him in a long, drawn out conversation.

  “I need my secrets.” He smiles again and takes a swig from his plastic cup of wine.

  “How am I supposed to cook it for you?”

  “I do the cooking.” His face changes at the mere suggestion of me going in the kitchen and preparing food for him. Leave it. Drop it. Don’t push him. Keep things happy between us.

  “Oh, okay.” I say with yet another fake smile.

  I take another mouthful; careful not to accidentally spoon any more of the meat into my mouth, and his face lightens a little.

  “Are you ready to go upstairs?” he asks.

  He reminds me of an impatient child, dying to leave the table to play with his new toy. Even if I said ‘no’ to him, I don’t think he would take it as a final answer.

  “Sure.”

  I’m nervous. I don’t want this. I don’t have a choice. I push my plate away from my place setting as a final show that I’ve finished.

  “Do you want a hand out with the plates?” I ask, still hoping to stall him. Still hoping to stall us.

  “I’ll worry about them later,” he stands up and offers me his hand. I smile and take it, all the time telling myself to stay strong. “Are you sure about this?” he asks.

  I am sure about this. I’m sure that I don’t want to do it.

  “Yes.” I smile.

  The fake smile that’s so used to creeping across my face now, “It’ll be fun.”

  He leads me out of the dining room and up the stairs. I feel as though my heart is louder than our footsteps on the creaking stairs. I hope he can’t hear it. I hope he can’t hear it give away my nervousness.

  “I’m just going to freshen up. Do you want to go through and put it on then?” he asks as he stops at the top of the stairs.

  No. “Okay.” He lets go of my hand and watches as I walk towards the room. I stop just before I go in and turn to him, “Don’t be too long.” I give him a little wave (I don’t know where that came from) and vanish into the room. I hear the bathroom door close behind him.

  Fuck.

  I’m alone. I know where he is. I know there’s no way of him seeing what I am doing whilst he is in the bathroom. I could run. I should run. No. I should stay. Carry on building the trust up. If I did try and run he’d hear me as soon as I got close to the stairs - this old house with the noisy fucking floorboards.

  The toilet flushes. He’ll be out soon.

  I close the bedroom door and take a deep breath. I have to do this. There’s no point in putting it off. It’s going to happen. I might as well just get it over with. I cross the room to the wardrobe and pull the red, PVC dress from where it hangs. It’s fucking hideous.

  I hear him at the door, “Vanessa?”

  “Don’t come in, I’m just changing. I want you to see the finished look.”

  “Okay. Give me a shout if you need anything or are ready.”

  No turning back now. He’s expecting it. If I suddenly dash his hopes he’s only going to get angry – maybe even put me back into the restraints.

  I unzip myself from the dress and slide it down my body, stepping out of it the first opportunity I get. I hold the PVC dress up and admire it. At least I pretend to admire it. It’s still hideous but I know he’s probably watching via the CCTV. Don’t look at the camera. Don’t let on you know he’s watching you.

  I kick my underwear off and step into the PVC dress. It’s cold against my skin. As I pull it up my nervous body it feels tight. It’s the first time I’ve worn anything like this. From the way that it feels, I’m hoping it’ll be the last. Part of me hopes that he doesn’t like the look of it, once I’m wearing it, and yet the other part of me hopes he can’t get enough of it. The more he likes it, the more chance there is I’ll be rewarded with free reign of the house – and ultimately, my freedom.

  I pull on the zip at the back of my dress. It’s on. I can barely breathe. I wonder whether that’s because of the dress or my nerves.

  “I’m ready.” I call out.

  I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready for him but I may as well get it over with. There is no sense delaying the inevitable.

  I perch myself seductively on the edge of the bed and look on as the bedroom door slowly opens with him standing there. Standing there, looking at me. I stand up and give him the full effect of the dress.

  “Well...?” I ask, hiding my anxiety.

  He doesn’t say anything for a while. He just continues to stand there, mouth wide open, “You look great.”

  “It feels great,” I still hate it, “Have a feel.” I offer. I don’t want him to feel but if I just put the dress on and take it off again, he’ll think I’m just teasing him and I won’t make any progress.

  “Are you sure?” he asks politely.

  I wasn’t expecting that. I was expecting him to just lunge for me. I was expecting him to make a move as soon as the door opened and yet, so far, he’s been a perfect gentleman. If anything – he seems a little uneasy.

  “Of course.” I walk over, stand directly in front of him and watch as he gingerly raises his hands and strokes the side of my body through the PVC. ‘Don’t think about it’, I keep telling myself.

  The touch of his hands, against my sides, sends little shivers through my body. I long for him to get embarrassed and stop, but he doesn’t and it’s not long before his hands are roaming the rest of my body; my stomach, my breasts, the top of my back, my lower back and caressing my buttocks – all through the cloth.

  “I like it,” he says. My heart sinks. I pull myself closer to him until our bodies are touching. I

  can feel that he likes it, his erect penis straining against his jeans. I want to stop. I can’t stop.

  “Kiss me,” I plead. Shut your eyes. Think of someone else. Johnny. He doesn’t wait to be asked again, probably scared that I’ll change my mind. I won’t change my mind, as much as I’d like to. He kisses me, starting with a peck on the lips, as we started the last time we kissed together. Another kiss on the lips again, I open my mouth slightly to allow a deeper kiss. He senses my invitation and kisses me deeply. I make all the right noises as my mind takes me to another place far away from here.

  His hands tightly clenched around my buttocks. Let go. Please. He doesn’t. Just take it to the next step. Get it over with.

  “What do you think of my underwear?” I ask.

  His hands move underneath the PVC dress, still around my back. I feel a twitch as he realises I’m not wearing any underwear. For the first time since seeing me in the dress, he smiles – the smile of a monster.

  “Are you wearing any?” I ask pretending that I want to know the answer. I deserve a medal as I unbutton his jeans and let them drop to the floor, freeing him. His isn’t wearing any.

  He pulls away from me, “Are you sure you want this?”

  He wants this. I can see that clearly. I know, deep down, that if I go through with it – I’ll have freedom soon after.

  “Do you have any protection?” I ask. I don’t know what to do if he hasn’t.

  “I’ll get some.” He kicks his jeans off completely and gives me a quick kiss before leaving the room. It takes all of my willpower not to make a run for it there and then. I wonder though, would he chase me down the street with no trousers and pants on? Be strong. Stand your ground.

  I don’t stand my ground for long before he comes back into the room, holding a packet of condoms in his left hand. I smile at him as I take them from him and use my teeth to tear the clear wrapping off. Show him I want this as much as he does. Take charge of the situation.

  “Sit on the bed,” I order him.

  He doesn’t move. “After you.”

  I turn from him and walk, nervously, to the bed. This is it.

  There is definitely no turning back now. When I get to the foot of the bed I feel his hands around my shoulders and he s
pins me round to face him.

  “You look so fucking hot,” he whispers.

  Something is wrong. He’s changed. He’s gone from being a stuttering schoolboy – scared at his next sexual encounter – to the predator I’ve seen in him before. He kisses me again before pushing me back onto the bed.

  I’ve lost the control.

  “I’ve wanted this since I first saw you,” he tells me as he strokes my arms before taking hold of my wrists and moving them up to the restraints.