by J. C. Cliff
“Yeah, and she’s emotionally spent on top of it all,” I add, another reason she’d be drained tomorrow, as well. Jared leaves, and I lay back down beside her. I roll her onto her side and pull her close to me again. Shit, I feel like I could take a nap I’m so exhausted. Only a few hours have passed, and I feel like I’ve been wrestling a damn tiger all day. I nuzzle my face into the crook of her neck, giving her a chaste kiss.
Her petite body just feels so right in my arms; she fits me like a glove. Despite her circumstances, I can only wish she’ll come to look to me like she did before Jared’s confession—with hope and perhaps a flash of desire in her eyes. I want to become that beacon of hope for her once again. But why give her any hope? I ask myself. I close my eyes in defeat, knowing I can’t offer her a damn thing. I’m not her rescuer or a knight in shining armor, and as much as I don’t want to, I’ve got a job to do.
Even though she doesn’t know I’m here now, I lay with her for a long while anyway, listening to her steady breathing. I take comfort in the fact she will have a few hours reprieve from the nightmare she’s living. “Sweet dreams, sweetheart,” I whisper over her. I’m sure anything I do from here on out, she’ll think I’m always playing a game with her, manipulating her. Maybe I am; maybe I’m not. I’m beginning to wonder myself what the hell I’m doing.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
~Jules~
I wake up to an obnoxious buzzing sound. Crap, it’s the alarm clock, and for a split-second, I think I’m back in Boston and need to get up for class. My eyes stay closed as my hand fumbles out from the warm comfort of my blanket, blindly searching for the snooze button. I smack the button and silence ensues—there are no sounds of my roommates fighting over the bathroom, or music playing from one of the other rooms, or racket out in the hallway—and it’s then I remember where I am.
I curl my body under the fluffy, white comforter, feeling its soft weight on top of me. I feel too comfortably-sedated within the confines of my bed to find it within myself to really be upset, or to even contemplate getting up. I’ve been given enough drugs for a football team over the past two days, and my poor system is in revolt.
I believe being inoculated by all those high doses has finally caught up to me. I barely remember Travis feeding me dinner last night before I passed out again. My stomach rumbles at the thought of food, and rolling over to look at the alarm clock, I see it says 9 am. Whoa, is that an accident, or did they let me sleep in on purpose? I reach over to switch the alarm button to the ‘off’ position so it won’t go off again when the snooze timer runs out, and I notice a Band-Aid on the inner part of my forearm. My brow furrows; that was not there last night. In fact, Travis gave me a shot in the shoulder, not the inside of my forearm. Those bastards came in and stuck me again when I was sleeping at some point in the night. Another Band-Aid draws my attention to the backside of my right hand. What the hell? I’m beginning to feel like a pincushion. My stomach rumbles again, and I’m reminded I should probably eat, since I ate very little yesterday.
Annoyed at my body for forcing me to emerge from my warm bed, I let out a grumble. I rub the sleep from my eyes, yawn, and slowly make my way to the kitchenette table, where there is food waiting for me hiding underneath the silver dome. Something is irritating my left ankle; I look down to see a heavily-wired anklet of some sort strapped to me. Lovely, just lovely. I bend down to try and remove it, but no luck. Bastards. I’m sure it’s a tracking device, should I have the good fortune to escape. The intrusion I feel begins to make my blood boil, but I’ll push it aside for now; I need sustenance first. Steam escapes as I lift the lid, and I smell the delicious aroma of scrambled eggs, bacon, and fruit. Mmnn. I don’t hesitate. I sit down and begin to devour everything in sight.
As I sit and eat my breakfast, I finally take full notice of the framed artwork that’s hanging on the wall before me, and gasp. It is the exact same rendition I have displayed on my bedroom wall at home, but on a much, much larger scale. The mysterious and expressionistic scape of land and sea spreads at least four-feet wide and three-feet high in front of me. The sheer size alone is breathtaking, and I know this cost a pretty penny. This one-of-a-kind—or so I’d thought—custom-made collage had to have been done specifically for me, not to mention, this artist typically doesn’t do large pieces. I shudder at the thought that he knows my bedroom. How creepy. How did I not feel someone’s eyes on me? Stalking me? Probably because I’ve always felt safe and protected and thought I never needed to look over my own shoulder. I grew up having other people doing that for me. Well, I won’t ever make that mistake again—if I get the chance.
Since Nick has basically admitted to stalking me over the past few years, he most likely knows what all of my favorite things are. He hit the nail on the head by displaying my favorite piece on the wall. I’m perplexed as to what exactly I am to Nick that he would hang such a rich, elaborate, and expensive piece of mixed media art on the wall for me...in a captive’s cell, no less. Some things are just not adding up.. I can only surmise that these few lavish items surrounding me have been placed here at Nick’s orders. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
I decide to let go of the confusing questions, which are swirling around in my mind, and get lost within the beautiful seascape before me. The ocean water has always centered me, creating an inner peace and calmness within as if I’m part of something eternal. It’s an indescribable fulfillment when I sink my toes in the sand and look out at the horizon. I spent many of my summers at our beach house along the East coast when I was younger, which are full of fond memories. It’s such a huge part of nature, untouched by man, and not only do I love it, I love replicating it with art.
Anytime I’m able to combine mixed media art with ocean-scapes, I’m truly in Heaven. I love to use watercolors, acrylic pigments, and shimmery mica particles of rich exotic colors, and then combine them with layers of different fibers and textures.
This painting before me literally radiates with gold and turquoise colors, which flow flawlessly behind the clear glass frame, and I could get lost in it for hours. After I finish eating, I allow myself to sit at the kitchen table and study the painting for a while longer, escaping to my happy place, and dream of being at the ocean and creating a unique piece of art in my mind.
I find myself rubbing at my stiff neck and realize I’ve let myself lose track of time. I’m sure I’ve been sitting here for at least half an hour. I arch my achy back as I sit in the chair, stretch my stiff arms out to the side, and yawn.
I think back to yesterday when Travis took care of me. I was perplexed when he switched out my clothing, changing me into a fresh set of pajamas. He didn’t ogle me or pause to cop a feel; he exuded nothing but concern for my wellbeing as I laid there like a limp noodle.
I don’t know what had come over me in the exam room, but when I fought against him as he picked me up, and in his deep, stern, unyielding voice, commanded me to stop, it had overridden every thought in my head, and I immediately ceased my struggling. And when he’d demanded me to answer him verbally, the “Yes, sir” had come out of my mouth with no hesitation, accompanied by a heat that had spread through me like a wildfire, making me want to obey his every word. Was it the Blyss? Is that what it does to women once it takes hold in their system?
In our system, I correct myself. I let out a sigh and rested my forehead in the palm of my hand. I’m so confused about everything right now, and nothing is making sense to me, especially Travis. He’s so hard and cold one minute, and then with the flip of a switch, he turns sweet, caring, and almost-protective the next when I have a break down. I’m left wondering if this is part of his game, his manipulative ploy he uses to brainwash women. He seemed so genuine at times, though, sending me all kinds of mixed signals which leave me more puzzled.
I swivel my body around in the kitchen chair and look to the large upholstered storage bench that sits at the end of my bed. There are no clothes laid out for me today, which indicates to me perhaps they’
re giving me an intermission from the drama. I’ll keep my fingers crossed that this is the case, and I’ll be left undisturbed for the day. I glance around the room and spy a bookcase by the entertainment center. Instantly, I get excited, hopping up from my seat and making a bee line for the collection.
Books have always been the absolute, hands-down, best way for me to escape reality. Over the course of my life, especially when I’d found myself in any type of emotional turmoil, reading kept the stressful and negative thoughts at bay. It enables me to leave myself behind and sink into my imagination. When I read a book, I just get pulled in; that’s the power of words.
I see there are quite a few to choose from in both hardback and paperback. I squat down to look on the lower shelves, and I’m immediately drawn to the set of my favorite books—the Harry Potter series. I’ve never been one to read a book more than once, but these books were so compelling and full of imagination, I may just revisit them. It doesn’t matter how old someone is—Harry Potter is for everyone.
I continue scanning over the bookcase and notice one entire shelf is designated to romance novels. Hmph, I’ve never really paid attention to that particular genre before. In the past, I always bypassed romance, as I found myself drawn to history and science fiction. I run my fingers along the covers slowly, reading their names. “Fifty Shades of Grey by E.L. James,” I say aloud and pluck the book from the shelf, leaving an empty spot. The cover looks streamlined but intriguing enough, so I turn it over to read the excerpt. I remember some of the buzz going around campus about this book, but I never really paid any attention to it. I was too busy wrapped up in my own corner of the world to care about investigating it.
I give up on the internal debate with myself on whether or not to give it a go. “Oh, what the heck, why not?” I ask myself, and then settle onto the sofa and crack open the novel to begin reading. After reading the first few chapters, the book promises to be a tantalizing read, and I can tell something juicy is going to happen really soon. I almost feel like I should be climbing under the covers with a flashlight to read this, as if I’m hiding a dirty little secret.
It’s an intriguing storyline, entertaining, and actually somewhat amusing. In my mind, I poke fun at the absurdity regarding the lack of good decision-making skills this girl has acquired over her lifetime. She is, after all, only twenty-one, and I find myself pausing for a moment, thinking about how I’m the same age. Is this the dimwitted mindset most girls my age have? I shake my head—no way. I have to remind myself this is the reason they call it fiction; it’s all a farce, meant to provide people with one thing only…entertainment.
The scene leading up to the characters’ first kiss makes my belly flip, and I remember Travis having that same effect on me, except he made my belly flip tenfold. I unconsciously chew on my thumbnail while I read on into the next chapter, totally engrossed.
I’m a quarter of the way into the paperback book when things really start to heat up. When I get to a scene where she’s entering his ‘playroom’ for the first time, I want to shut the book and walk away. The only thing this girl and I have in common is that she’s a virgin and she has apprehension. She’s got a few screws loose putting up with him. She would actually choose to let someone dominate her, just like Nick wants to dominate me? I shudder at the thought.
Yep, this girl deserves whatever she’s got coming her way. You can bet your bottom dollar if it were me, I’d be running for the hills, screaming like crazy and not looking back. But that’s the biggest difference between me and this fictional girl—she has a choice to run for the hills; I don’t. I gaze at the intimidating curtains across the room with a frown and think to myself, This shit is not a fun fantasy, not at all. It’s real and scares the daylights out of me, and I wonder for a moment if Nick put these books here on purpose.
Now who’s acting the part of a dimwit? I scold myself. Of course he did!
Maybe if I wasn’t so ignorant of what people do on the cross-thingy, I wouldn’t be so fearful of the unknown. Perhaps I could mentally prepare myself for it, instead of waiting for someone to just drop the bomb. Not a bad idea. I let out a long-winded sigh and read on.
*~*~*
I feel a deep sensation intensify deep in my groin from all the intimate scenes I’ve read thus far, and it has me thinking of Travis.
“Holy shit,” I whisper out loud, horrified by some of the things the characters are doing because I never knew anyone did them. I can’t seem to put this book down, however; it’s too morbidly fascinating. It’s hot, dirty, and raw, and pheromones seem to be radiating off its pages.
I feel my core beginning to pulsate, and the wetness of my own arousal is beginning to soak my panties. How in the hell did I get this way? I feel a throbbing sensation intensifying deep within my groin. I can’t even begin to describe what my body has been awakened to. This growing sexual tension I’m feeling is so new to me. Never in my life could I have ever imagined this type of consuming arousal even existed.
I truly thought romance novels were overly-fabricated. I am simply astounded by the plethora of adjectives that can be combined to describe physical and emotional responses with such clarity that it becomes a reality for the reader. I feel the characters’ needs and wants as if they are my own. I really don’t know how the author does it, because I find myself at a loss for words, unable to describe what my own body is currently experiencing, causing the wetness I feel down...in my…pussy—there, I said it. It’s always been such a taboo word for me, but there is no other way to pay tribute to or describe what my nether regions are feeling right now.
I’ve always hated that word—pussy—and I probably still do. It seems so crass, but I’m not in my right frame of mind at the moment. Jared told me what these drugs would do, and they’ve kicked my hormones into another solar system. My nipples harden, and I curse the book for breaking the Hoover Dam of my sexual sanity. I’m morphing into a sex-starved nympho, and I realize it’s with good reason I’ve always been so reluctant to pick up these types of books. I should’ve stuck with reading The Old Man and the Sea, Huckleberry Finn, Gulliver’s Travels, or my Harry Potter—anything but romance!
I must have lost all reason, especially if I’m arguing with myself over why I feel the need to use the word pussy. The absurd amount of desire coursing through my blood stream, and wanting to figure out a way to describe what my vagina is feeling…is insane! I seem to have no perception of normalcy right now, because I can’t stop thinking about my pussy.
My pussy feels overly-swollen, with a mix of heaviness, throbbing, and a pulsating pain. I have an out-of-control need for release, something more than the one Travis gave me yesterday. I am light-years away from my prudish comfort zone, and I want someone or something to take this frantic feeling away from me.
My body is so overly-desperate right now that at this point, I would even let Nick fuck me; it’s that bad. I know that sounds sick, and now I see the reason these men are so obsessed with this drug they’ve been developing. I pause, realizing I—Julianna Oakley, lifetime attendee of strict, all-girl boarding schools, who has always made her dad and bodyguards put a dollar in the swear jar for even saying ‘damn’—have just thought the words fuck and pussy. That’s twice in two days I’ve turned to using a foul mouth, and I’m almost mortified at myself…almost. I’m too distracted with thoughts of grabbing one of the throw pillows beside me to buck my hips against.
This concoction of Jared’s can make the most unwilling and devout Puritan genuinely beg anyone to release them from this yearning, even if the man was a necrophiliac. The way I’m feeling, I’d even roll over and play dead for the sick fucker. I try desperately to steer my thoughts away from this libidinous way of thinking, but I can’t. The overwhelming feeling of needing to hump something has me going out of my mind. I contemplate for a moment if I have something to break the Plexiglass cases behind the red curtains. It’d be equivalent to looting, I know, but this calls for disaster survival. Hmnn, I look around the
room. Will a water bottle work? TV remote? Shit...
I put the book down and close my eyes, trying to make heads or tails of the way I feel. Shielding my eyes with my forearm, I rest the crook of my elbow across my brow and begin to daydream. I think of yesterday in the clinic with Travis’ weight on top of me, holding me down and moving his hips against mine. I imagine Travis being naked and moving over my body, and I feel his hardness graze along my inner thigh as he makes his way up my body. I want to feel his fullness inside me, stretching me, and I remember the orgasmic explosion he brought me.
I pretend he’s here now, hovering over me, his hard muscles working, flexing, and rubbing against my body. I can hear his deep moans, and I can feel his tongue as it slides over mine with its heated skill. I lick my bottom lip slowly, responding to my thoughts. He tastes me hungrily, exploring every inch of my mouth, and my tongue remembers the pattern of his kiss. I feel his muscular chest as it rests against mine, and his breathing has accelerated, indicating he’s as turned on as I am.
My back arches, my breasts seeking the palms of his hands, and I recall how hot his passion was, and the way he pinched and pulled at my nipples. My stomach dips as I continue to relive yesterday’s intense exchange. Oh, sweet mother of Moses. I can feel his thick, swollen cock and how it nestled perfectly in the opening of my pussy, and I remember the way my inner walls practically reached for his dick behind the rough fabric of his jeans as he pressed into me, rubbing and grinding against my slick core. I can only imagine what the head of his penis would feel like nestled just inches inside me as he slowly rocks himself in and out, stretching me, getting ready to breach my barrier.
