Shame keeps my eyes lowered as I hand him back the towel. It’s not the first time he’s commanded me to pleasure myself and I have no doubt that it won’t be the last, considering the amount of desire in his eyes while it was happening. My shame stems more from the guilty realization that I enjoyed it. I needed it. I wanted him to tell me to do it. I don’t think I would have touched myself had he not issued the command, but my body was begging for the release. My skin was on fire, itchy with need. Wanting it this time is unlike being forced to do it the first time because the pleasure lasts longer. It doesn’t dissipate the second the orgasm is over like it did the first time.
My head is a jumble of thoughts as I walk past him into the bedroom. The chain around my neck clinks and jingles as it travels along behind me. At first, my eyes dart to the bed, I could really use more sleep. I have no doubt if I survive this situation, I’ll sleep for a month straight. But then again, I know my parents would never allow it. We’d have to jump on the prime news spots that have been covering my abduction. There’d be exclusives and interviews and every part of my life leading up to my abduction until I returned home would be picked apart as much as I want out of here.
I’m not looking forward to that part. There’s no true privacy in my life. There would be no headline that states the family is asking for privacy during this trying time. My emotions and my mental health would not even be considered. The news would be too big.
I swallow as my eyes dart to the bedroom door and for a split second, I imagine myself throwing it open and escaping. But I know that’s not possible. The lock on the door requires a thumbprint—his thumbprint.
With a sigh that encompasses more than the guilt I feel for what I just did in the shower, I cross the room and take a seat on the small sofa. My mouth waters at the sight of the bacon there. It looks golden and extra crispy.
I glance up at him as he crosses the room, his erection flagging but not fully gone as he sits right beside me. There’s a brief brush of his thigh along mine but he’s quick to move over a few inches until we’re not touching. I don’t know if it’s guilt or his own form of shame that keeps him from putting his hands on me. Maybe all the things he spit at me when he first brought me here are right. He thinks I’m a petulant, petty child. Maybe he believes I’m not worthy of his touch. Maybe the thought of touching me in the first place disgusts him.
“Eat,” he grunts as he reaches for a piece of toast. I don’t do the same.
He chews quietly and I can feel his eyes on the side of my face, but I refuse to look in his direction. I’ve acknowledged his presence too many times already.
“Is there something wrong with the food?” he asks.
I have a choice to make. I can comply and eat what’s put in front of me, because Lord knows I’m starving, but I decide to go with my first instinct instead. “Do you know how much grease there is in bacon? Do you know how many carbs are in toast and oatmeal?” I keep my voice level, the snideness I want to use bubbling under the surface.
“This isn’t a fucking five-star hotel, Raya.”
I scoff at the ridiculousness of his words. “I can’t eat a plate full of carbs and saturated fat. I’ll get as big as a house.”
He scoffs as if I’m the ridiculous one. As if he didn’t rip me away from my life and force me to play with myself in his shower.
“You could stand to gain a little weight. Now eat.”
My head jerks back, his words like a slap to the face. But I’m more surprised than angered. It’s the opposite of something my mother would say. My mother, who’s a firm believer that everybody has at least five extra pounds to lose, would say if the camera adds ten pounds, you need to lose fifteen.
I try for a different tactic. “I’m going to go crazy without exercise.” He hums and it sounds like an agreement as if he couldn’t imagine going through daily life without some form of exercise. His agreement isn’t an offer to provide that for me though. He doesn’t make a suggestion about doing jumping jacks or push-ups or wall squats.
In the room he’s caged me inside of, he just continues to eat, using long fingers to pick up another piece of bacon. I have to look away, remembering what those hands look like when he’s touching himself. I’m losing my mind. I have to be. That’s the only reason I can come up with for letting those things infiltrate my head.
“Eat,” he commands again. I look at him this time.
“If I wanted to waste my calories, I’d do it on something enjoyable, like banana Laffy Taffy, not toast, oatmeal, and greasy bacon.” Keeping the ire out of my tone this time is impossible.
The turn of his head is slow, his eyes serious and menacing, but he doesn’t issue another command. The demand to eat is etched in every feature on his face. Knowing I’ve pushed the boundaries enough today, I reach down and grab a piece of toast, somewhat grateful that it seems to be wholegrain.
“I like eggs,” I confess after chewing and swallowing a small bite.
“But not those eggs?” he asks, pointing down at a clump of scrambled yellow mess.
“Not really,” I say, instead of complaining further. If the toast is already cold and I can see the top layer of oatmeal already drying out, I’d never be able to stomach those eggs. I don’t know how he’d respond if I puked on his floor.
The toast is dry in my throat, but he picks up the single cup of coffee off the tray when I go to reach for it. “The water is yours,” he says and I try my best not to glare at him when he lifts the coffee to his lips. With more attitude than I intended, I pick up the cup of water and drink more than half of it. “You need protein,” he says after a long minute. “So either eat the bacon or eat the eggs.”
Gingerly, I lift a strip of bacon from the plate and take a hearty bite. It’s delicious. Thick and crispy. It’s nothing like the paper-thin slices of turkey bacon the chef adds to my breakfast plate every morning. I don’t groan in pleasure as I swallow but I want to. What I can’t manage to do is scrunch my nose and pretend that it’s horrible. I ignore the faint smile on his lips as I toss the second half into my mouth. He scoops bite after bite of eggs into his mouth, leaving the remainder of bacon for me.
He doesn't say a word. He simply waits patiently until I’m done eating before he stands and carries the tray out of the room. The sound of the lock engaging fills the room and I know I’d never be able to escape that way. I war with myself on what to do next. I don’t know how long he’ll be gone. I could be in here alone for two minutes or it could be two hours. But I can’t not take a chance at escape. He didn’t re-chain me to the floor and I don’t know if this is a test or not.
The second I gather enough courage, I bolt up from the sofa and race across the room. I’m not greeted with sunlight or darkness when I pull the curtains back. How is that even possible? I gasp, my hands meeting nothing but sheetrock and paint. I dart to the next window, ripping the curtains back once again. Walls. It’s nothing but walls.
I race around the room, checking behind all four sets of curtains, but there are no windows. There’s nothing there. It’s just wall. My heart is racing and tears burn my eyes. I want to sob. There’s no escape. There’s no getting away from him. I crumple to the floor and pull my knees up to my chin and cry. It’s the only thing I have power over right now. I don’t have control over my thoughts, my emotions, or my body.
I don’t bother looking up when the bedroom door opens again. It’s only been a matter of days and already I’m defeated.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. But the tone of his voice says that he is well aware of what I’ve discovered. It wouldn’t be that hard to figure out. I’ve got my back against a curtain where a window should be. I look up at him, tears still streaming down my cheeks. But there’s no sympathy in his eyes. He doesn’t feel sorry for me. Hell, he doesn’t even seem pleased that I’m upset. There are no emotions on the man’s face.