I’d never imagined how dependent on sensation I was, especially when the only consistent in my life—my father—never touched me. He didn’t hug me, or pat me on the back. He never kissed me good night. But there were always at least other sensations—the sound of his TV murmuring the news or some cheesy sitcom; the smell of the alcohol he drank or the pungent aroma of his cigarettes.
And then at work, there were other sensations—people talking, the photo machine whirring, the scent of perfumes, colognes, and food from the restaurant down the street. There were children to watch playing along the sidewalk and the brush of the breeze against my skin when I walked home.
Here, there was nothing. If there had ever been a scent in the room, I’d long-since acclimated to it. And there was nothing else. No people, no sounds, no scents. There wasn’t even a single book to read.
My books—I missed my books. I had hundreds of them, most of them passed on to me from customers in the store, like Mrs. Jenkins, who forever saw me with my nose in a book. Mysteries, romances, crime thrillers, biographies, even an old nursing textbook from Mrs. Jenkin’s college years. What I wouldn’t give for any one of them now.
But the only sensation I was allowed was my captor’s brief touch. I hated him; I hated him even more for making me crave something I despised, but I did crave it. If it was gone now, if he wasn’t even going to touch me during the brief time he was here, then it was only fair he put me out of my misery—not that I expected him to be fair.
“Come here,” he called, startling me out of my dark thoughts. I hesitated for a moment, but if it meant we could circumvent the whole trick-performing plan and he wasn’t intending to deprive me of the sensation I desperately needed, then it probably wasn’t so bad.
I moved to stand, but he shook his head and I stopped. What did he want then? It didn’t take me long to figure it out. Kneeling was no longer enough. He wanted me to crawl.
No. I wasn’t that hungry, and it really was ridiculous to be so dependent on his touch. And if he retaliated by making me skip a few meals, I’d get over it. And I’d find some way to deal with it when he took away his touch, too.
So, I lifted my chin higher and shook my head.
He sighed and stood up. I thought he was going to bring over the tray of food or else leave, but he approached without it.
“I have been more than patient,” he said when he stood in front of me. “I’ve been lenient, giving you the opportunity to make the necessary changes to your character on your own. But you’re not going to do that, are you, Pet?”
Necessary changes? Of course, I wasn’t going to change for him. Had he really thought I would? I shook my head, apparently not quite brave enough to spit out the words.
“That’s what I thought,” he said with a sigh. It sounded like a sigh of relief though, not resignation, and that confused me.
Before I could respond, he yanked me up off the floor and flung me over his shoulder. As he started toward the bed, I realized I’d been foolish to let myself forget about that first day with him, when he’d pulled off his belt and spanked me with it, shackled to the bed. Is that what he had planned to do now?
But when he reached the bed, he didn’t put me on the floor like I’d expected. Instead, he sat down and pulled me into his lap. I struggled weakly to escape, but I was so confused I didn’t really know what to do. He held me tight with one arm while the other stroked my cheek, and I sighed inside. A change from the nothingness. I welcomed it, though I was careful to keep my expression from showing it.
After a moment though, I couldn’t help but lean into it, absorbing the sensation after too much time without. But this new position made me painfully aware of my state of undress, somehow more potent now on his lap than it had been on the floor.
“I knew it wouldn’t be enough, Pet, but I had to give you this time to realize you’re never going to become what you need to be without my help.”
What I needed to be? What was he talking about? Somehow I doubted anything he could do could be constituted as help.
“You have to let go of this stubbornness and pride,” he said as he continued to stroke my cheek, and then moving lower, across my jaw, down to my neck.
My body hummed in response to the new sensation. He hadn’t touched me there before, and it seemed to awaken a plethora of nerve endings. Through my haze of sensation bliss—as wrong as it might be—I was vaguely aware of his words. The tone of his voice was soothing, particularly heaped upon the touch of his fingers, but there was an undercurrent running through him that was slowly breaking through the haze. I knew somehow that it should be setting me more on edge than usual.