Captive in the Dark(42)

“There,” his voice was hoarse. Another caress, this one down my arm. I stared at his chest, the dark buttons against dark cloth. He took my hand and led me out the door. My nipples hardened, pressing against the silk.

He was really going to let me out? “Come,” he said, giving a small smile of approval. But I froze. I kept asking myself: is this really happening? And like always, the answer was: yes.

I stepped into the living room as if I stepped into a whole other world. It was one I was strangely frightened to enter. I hesitated, the room felt too big, too cold, and too bright to my sensitive eyes. I squeezed Caleb’s hand, needing to make certain he was close to me, and then stopped. I recognized the ridiculousness of my thought process, but also knew there was no way to change it. What was it called when a hostage took refuge behind her abductor?





Stockholm’s?

Did I have it? Could you catch it like the flu? I knew it was stupid to wonder. The simple answer was I didn’t want to run into that other guy, the one that took me—that’s all.





Yes, yes, of course.

These thoughts soothed me. Caleb hadn’t gotten to me, not like that.





Hasn’t he? I shook off the thought and let go of Caleb’s hand to emphasize my point.





Take that





inner monologue.

My eyes devoured every surface, any object because who knew when I’d be put back in my black box. I looked up at the ceiling, some twelve feet high, and marveled at the thick wooden beams that ran from wall to wall. It was beautiful, old, and grandiose. Beneath my feet were ceramic tiles, large ones, some with flower-like designs. Tapestries and wall sconces lined the large room, accentuating the low antique looking chairs. I felt like I was in an eighteenth century sitting room. Any minute now, a man wearing a cravat and brandishing a stylish, if not useless walking stick was going to enter the room and offer me tea. Though one look at the arched entrance to a hallway directly opposite my room and I knew the man would probably not be English. This place had a lot of Spanish vibes. Where the hell was I? To the left I spied a type of kitchen area. There was a table at least. And directly across, to my right I finally saw…





a





window.

I think I let out a giddy squeal. I ran to the window, shaking off Caleb’s grasp when he tried to stop me, but he didn’t pursue me. I gripped the bars, peering out. It was still night! I was hoping it was daylight; I hadn’t seen the sun in…in…in? My brain couldn’t process anything beyond seeing the





outside world. I was still trapped. This was a prison within a prison. Still, this was more freedom than I had had in a long time, a taste, but it would have to be enough to sustain me.

Overwhelmed, I stared out into the night. I reached through the bars, wishing they weren’t there, and touched the window, the warmth of the glass. The landscape was muted and hard to make out; the moon, nowhere to be seen. I wondered if this black immutable landscape was why he’d let me out this night—I couldn’t tell where the hell I was. I could be three blocks from home, or in an entirely different country. That gnawed at me, Mexico was way too close to California and yet too far away from any expectation of rescue. Caleb’s voice invaded my thoughts, “Are you hungry?” he said behind me, way behind me.

I didn’t look back at him, absorbed in the darkness outside, and distracted by everything else.

I managed a, “Kind of.”

“Well, it’s ‘kind of’ a yes or no question. I’d appreciate it if you answered me properly, and face me when I speak to you.” I ripped my eyes away from the window and looked at him. He had that big smile on his face again. The same smile he had been using to cause so much inner turmoil. In the dark, it twisted me in knots, in the light – it was almost crippling.

“I’m sorry Master,” I said, regaining my composure. “Yes…I’m hungry.” I turned toward the window and squeezed the bars. His words echoed in my head,





“You feel so good. I love your





tight little ass.”

“There’s chicken and rice, or tamales. Which would you prefer?”

“Um, the rice?” I responded, turning around again. Even this felt like a test, a game. I wasn’t feeling all that hungry, but I was afraid if I didn’t eat I’d have to go back inside my prison. He grabbed the leftovers from the refrigerator and spooned the contents out onto a plate. How domestic of him.