He’ll never forget my husband’s role in the massacre of his family, and I’ll never get past what he did to George.
The good news is that we’re back to using condoms. I don’t know if Peter saw the wisdom in avoiding extra complications at this stage of our fucked-up relationship, or if he’s actually respecting my wishes, but despite the copious amount of sex we’re having daily, there haven’t been any further slip-ups. Still, I anxiously count the days until my period, and when it arrives, two and a half weeks into my captivity, I sob with relief, for once grateful for the cramps and the discomfort. Peter doesn’t seem nearly as pleased, but when we resume having sex after the worst of my symptoms are over, he continues to use protection.
Another positive is that my failed escape attempt hasn’t lost me any outside contact privileges. Every afternoon, Peter lets me watch the recordings from my parents’ house, and every couple of days, he lets me call them. The calls are always brief, both as an extra precaution against the FBI tracing them and because there’s not much I can say. As far as my parents are concerned, I’m jetting around the world with my lover, happily oblivious to the danger he presents and to my responsibilities back home. Pretty much all I can do on those calls is assure my parents that I’m fine and inquire after their well-being before swiftly hanging up to avoid their endless questions and entreaties.
“You know, you can elaborate on our love affair a little,” Peter says after listening to the calls for about a week. “Give them some color to make it seem more authentic.”
“Really? Should I tell them how often you fuck me, or describe how big your cock is?”
Peter grins at my sarcasm—the one bit of defiance he doesn’t mind on occasion. “If you want,” he says, leaning back on the couch. “Or you can say that I make breakfast for you every day. I’m no expert on parents, but that seems like something they’d appreciate more.”
I bite back another sarcastic remark and do as he suggests on the next few calls, telling my parents about some of the little things Peter does for me. It can’t be anything that would point to our location, so I stick to more personal stuff, like the fact that he’s a great cook and his back rubs are amazing. Neither is a lie; now that we’re settled in the new place, Peter is back to making gourmet meals for me, and I’m beyond pampered with daily massages. I think it’s because he can’t keep his hands off me, and since we can’t have sex twenty-four-seven, he settles for touching me in other ways, using every opportunity to stroke and rub me from head to toe. Especially toe. I’m beginning to suspect my captor might have a little foot fetish, given how often he gives me the best foot rubs of my life.
I don’t tell my parents about the foot rubs—despite my sarcastic query, I’m not comfortable discussing anything remotely sexual with them—and I also keep quiet about the more intimate ways he takes care of me, like brushing my hair and washing me in the shower. It’s like I’m his human doll, something between a child and a sex toy. He did that back home as well, but I worked so much it was more of an occasional thing. Now, however, it’s a daily occurrence, and though I should probably find that kind of attention disturbing, I enjoy it too much to object.
I’ve been self-sufficient and independent for so long it feels good to let Peter baby me.
Of course, no amount of pampering can make up for losing my life and the job that defined me. I went from working upward of eighty hours a week to total leisure, and I have no idea how to fill that extra time. Peter takes up some of it—now that I’m always within his reach, he fucks me two or three times daily—and with the fresh mountain air, I sleep more, at least nine or ten hours a night. I also share leisurely meals with Peter and his men, and weather permitting, I go on long walks with him or whoever he assigns to guard me.
It’s not a bad routine, and we do have books and movies, but three weeks in, I’m ready to climb walls.
“Don’t you feel cooped up?” I ask Peter during one of our morning walks. The air is chilly, but fortunately, it’s neither rainy nor windy, as was the case for the last few days—another reason for my aggravation. “I mean, I know you work on your laptop, but still…”
Peter shrugs his broad shoulders. “I’m enjoying this downtime. It’s rare, so my guys and I take advantage while we can. We have a big job coming up, so we won’t be resting for long.”