Does she care that I may be in pain? It becomes obviously clear that she doesn’t. As she starts to shower, she pays no attention to me, no attention to my hand despite me assuming earlier that’s exactly what she wanted. It irritates me because I would never be strong enough to turn around and not watch if the roles were reversed. If she were pleasing herself, my eyes would be locked on her hand or on her jiggling tits or on the way her mouth hangs open before she comes.
“Turn around,” I command, and the second she does, I erupt. I splash her skin with jizz, glaring into her eyes, challenging her to argue, daring her to open her mouth and say something about it. I don’t apologize this time before climbing out and grabbing a towel.
I storm from the bathroom, but being in the bedroom just isn’t enough. I need more distance. I have to leave the room completely, of course making sure it’s locked before I go. I’m diligent about making sure that the door closes behind me, that I don't step away until I hear the mechanism whir inside, ensuring that it's locked.
The clock on the wall reads two a.m. and I'm honestly surprised that it's been two hours since I came out here to get that toy. It seems like it was over too fast. And although she gave me everything I was expecting, it somehow has ended up not being enough.
That toy has been on my brain all day since it was delivered around noon. Just knowing that it was in the house has taunted me beyond measure. I thought I'd be able to hold out longer than half a day to show it to her. But now I'm glad that I didn't. It was spectacular. Better than I ever could have imagined. And I'm a greedy fuck who wants to watch it over and over and over again.
My stomach growls as I enter the kitchen but even my hunger doesn't shove away the guilt I feel for speaking to her the way I just did. It's not like I can make her crave me the way I crave her. It's not like I can force her to want me the way I force her to come. I know I won’t apologize as I grab snacks and head back to the bedroom. I already did that once today. And that's once more than I ever presumed I would in my lifetime.
I cradle various bags of snacks to my chest as I open the bedroom door, wondering if this is the moment she loses that control she's so good at holding on to. But when I swing the door open wide, nothing comes flying at my head. She's sitting on the bed, watching me as I enter. She has the covers pulled up around her hips, perfect fucking tits on display, and she looks more confused than angry. It’s as if she wants to ask me what just happened, but I know she won’t. She’s never gotten comfortable enough to question my actions. Maybe she’s still afraid of me.
The coffee table is already back in its original spot on the far side of the room, in front of the couch. I don't know how I feel about the room being put back in order as if nothing happened. I don't know if I overreacted in the shower. I don't know if she's confused at why I acted that way. I don't know if it was a power play on her part. All I know is that this sense of guilt that I feel is entirely unwelcomed.
I don't say a word before turning around and walking back out of the room. I don't bother closing the door. She couldn't escape if she tried and I think that she's realized that as well. But just in case, I know I can trust the biometric lock that's on the front door. That's the only way out of this place. I drop the snacks back on the counter, not considering the thought that making her something heartier to eat is just one more form of an apology that I refuse to let escape my lips.
I stay on high alert for a few minutes as I rummage around in the pantry. There may come a time where she tries to find a weapon to hurt me with but keeping her locked in the room forever isn't likely either. I'm confident enough in my skills that I would be able to strong-arm her and get any weapon of her choosing away from her before it caused any real damage. I know that I need to be less concerned about the physical damage that she may cause and focus more on how she's completely turned my life upside down. But I don't have a hundred years to analyze all of that information.
Chapter 22
Raya
I stare at the open bedroom door. I know better than to get my hopes up. An open door doesn't mean I'm free. I don't immediately move from my spot on the bed. When he doesn't come back after a couple of minutes, I climb off and make my way in that direction.
I angle my head just outside of the doorframe, listening. Sounds of irritation can be heard in the banging of dishes and kitchen cabinets. I follow the sound, unsure of what I'm going to find.
Since I've been here, other than his phone ringing on occasion, we've been completely alone. I don't anticipate that ending anytime soon. He's already irritated, so I don’t bother wrapping the sheet from the bed around myself before leaving the room. My bare feet carry me into the kitchen.
He slams another cabinet door, grumbling to himself as I enter. My head is held high, but the show of confidence is only skin deep. My ability to maintain composure is another skill I've mastered in my short lifetime. Freaking out will get me nowhere. Darting to the front door is hardly a blip on my radar. It has the same type of lock as the bedroom door and my fingerprint would never open it.
I come to the shocking reality as I watch his back muscles twist and bunch, that there's a real possibility that I don't run to test it out because maybe I don't want to escape. The thought frightens me. It angers me because being held captive isn't something that I want either.
I swallow before opening my mouth to speak, but the words never come out. He's grumbling, clearly irritated, and although he's the one who left the bedroom door open, an invitation for me to leave, I doubt he'll be happy that I've joined him. He looks up at the ceiling as if there are answers there to questions he's not asking out loud. I take in the kitchen. It's small but efficient, clean, devoid of clutter.
“If you're making an omelet, I want egg whites only,” I say.
He turns slowly to face me, but there's no surprise in his eyes. I have no doubt the man knew I was standing behind him the second I entered the room. His eyes skate down my body and I've learned it’s something he can't control.
I fight back a smile because he makes it very clear he likes what he sees. I've stopped hiding my body from him. There's honestly no point in it. If I'm not on full nude display, he'd command it from me. If I refused, he’d force it out of me, and I'm picking my battles.
I'm tender between my legs as I shift on my feet, waiting for his response. He never moves his eyes like he's gonna argue, like he's going to choose this moment to once again assert his power, control and dominance over me. His annoyance with me is clear in his eyes. Well, that makes two of us. I'm annoyed as well.
He seemed annoyed when I told him about my experiences with my college professor and how he didn't provide the things I needed. He wasn't happy at the idea of another man leaving me wanting. But then he did the exact same thing in the bathroom.
I climbed into the shower, needing more from him but not in a sexual way. What I did, the performance I gave him in the bedroom, left me raw and needy. I didn't want him to touch me. I didn't want him to embrace me and tell me I did a good job, but I was exposed. All he wanted was more of that.
It's stupid of me to think of this as more than what it actually is. He doesn't care for me. His goal has always been to use me and that's something I need to accept. I need to stop visualizing him as anything more, as anything more than the monster that he is.
I orgasmed so hard it blurred my vision. He came without touching himself, and as much as I thought that was a victory, that I had done something right, it wasn't enough for him. I wasn't enough for my professor and I'm not enough for my captor. And what does that say about me?
He opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t tell me that I'll get what he sees fit. “Do you want it spicy or mild?” he asks.
I blink at him, surprised. “Is there a middle ground?” I ask. “A little spicy but not too hot?”
He nods before turning back to the stove. And as much as I want to explore, I take a seat at the table and wait. I try for a relaxed look, so he doesn't turn around and think that I'm waiting in an expectant manner, but slouching in the chair hurts my back.
I fiddle with my fingers on the tabletop, picking at the manicured tips of my fingernails as he cooks. When he places the delicious looking omelet in front of me, I fight the urge to dig in, waiting until his is done and he takes the seat opposite of me.