My fingers rest against the keys of the piano. Tapping them quickly, dancing up and down the row of keys. I mash different ones trying to make the sounds resemble a piece of music, any piece of music but they come out like a garbled mess. I have no idea what I'm doing.
"You really suck at that." He wore a dark red coat under his black leather jacket, a piece of flannel shirt peeking out underneath it.
"I know, it's not really the point." I crinkle my brow and stare at my hands, then run them over my dark blue skirt.
"What is the point then? To suck? No, you are either good at something or you are not. It's a waste of time if you are not." His voice held a gruff matter-of-fact tone to it. I'm not sure what I was expecting but this was not exactly what I had imagined, fighting over my shitty piano playing on our first meeting.
"It doesn't matter. It's nice you have such a narrow view of the world, Thomas." I bite my lip as I avoid his eyes. I hate being nervous, it's so pathetic after all I've shown and told him about myself. I'd feel naked in front of him even if I wore a snowsuit because he has seen my soul. The dark nuances, the dusty corners, it was all filth and it had been seen. Pried open like a clam robbed of it's pearl.
He places a hand on top of mind, turning my palm upwards and places a folded piece of paper onto it.
"I want you to read it, aloud as I record. Ok?" my breath catches in my throat as I unfold it and eye the words. I wrote them myself months ago when I first posted the ad online. Why did the letters scare me now? The thoughts haunted my mind for years, the urges stained my heart.
My voice shakes. "I, Charlotte Clarke." I don't remember putting my name in this, and realize he added that himself. He is documenting this, for what? The police? His own personal masturbation collection?
"I, Charlotte Clarke, surrender myself to the control of Thomas Bren, as his voluntary captive. I can leave anytime I wish. I am here by my own choice and need. You will probably not understand but in time you will see that this is what I want and this is what I really am, filth." I lowered my eyes to the floor again, the lump in my throat doubling in size. I choke out the word "filth" like it's a slur.
"Good girl," his smile was stiff and practiced. I knew at once it was the condescending kind that people gave well behaved children and animals. I felt too big and insignificant again, my physical body occupying more space than was necessary. I squirmed, wishing I was thinner, eyeing how my thighs spilled over the edges of the hard plastic chairs we had moved to, a round table between us. I wanted all the distance that was allowed. Foolish as it was, I was still afraid of him. His rejection, his approval, his physical strength, everything about him. He was the monster in my dreams and a mirror image of the thing deep inside me that I wanted to kill. We sat in silence for a few minutes until he cleared his throat, a waft of his cologne tinging my nose as he spoke.
"You're fatter than your pictures and uglier too but you have nice eyes and I like how your big your tits are," I fidgeted uncomfortably and blushed from embarrassment. He studied my face curiously.
"You smell too, like a whore. I think it's your cunt" his tongue dances along the cheek of his mouth mauling a thought over.
