A noise, a soft rapping on wood, drew me from the darkness of sleep. My eyes slowly opened to gaze into the sun setting across the Hudson. I groaned with loathing as my consciousness returned. I was living in a luxury suite in one of the most expensive areas of New York City, with all my needs cared for, and yet every evening as I woke, I thought of nothing but escape. I lay unmoving as I stared through the window.
I was twenty-two, I hadn't left the penthouse even once in two years, and it was almost certain that I'd die here. My inability to leave wasn't because I was restrained, at least not physically. I was totally free to wander about the penthouse, and I supposed, I could open the door and walk away, if only I could force myself to do so.
Another quiet knock sounded on my door, drawing me from my thoughts. "Michael?" a voice said softly from the other side. "I have dinner."
"Yeah," I grunted as I shoved myself up in the bed and ran my hand through my hair, trying to wake up. "Come in."
Jonathan entered, carrying a tray loaded with iron rich foods, a thick steak that I knew was cooked to medium-rare perfection, a small side of garlic butter shrimp, spinach, a whole wheat roll, and a small bowl of cubed watermelon. Also on the tray was a hypodermic containing erythropoietin. The Bitch needed her meal, and I was the one providing it.
The Bitch was our private name for our captor. It was the name Jonathan's predecessor had used when Jonathan was in my place, and as Jonathan had told it to me, so had his predecessor told it to him, and so on, back through only God knew how many men.
Jonathan set the tray on the small table that shared space in my room. My bedroom was huge, easily as large as the three bedrooms combined in the apartment I once shared with two others. While the apartment had a dining room, and an expansive living room with fantastic views of the river, Jonathan and I never used them, preferring to dine together in my room.
Jonathan occupied the smallest of the apartment's three bedrooms, though it was larger than most bedrooms in New York. The Bitch had the largest bedroom, with twice the space of my own, that contained a massive bed that was at least ten feet square, and little else. The only items in the room, other than the massive bed squatting in the center of the floor, was a mirror mounted to the ceiling above the bed and a decorative floor lamp in the corner to provide enough illumination to use the mirror.
The room was where she slept, and fed, and it made the pecking order clear. When Jonathan was fully consumed and no longer useful, I'd be demoted to the bedroom nearest The Bitch's and begin doting on the man who replaced me, until I too died.
Jonathan said he was thirty-one, though he looked at least fifty, maybe older, and his flesh sagged on his once robust frame as he slowly withered. When I'd first arrived, Jonathan was in glowing health, well-muscled, and with a full head of rich blond hair. Now his thinning hair was dull and lifeless, just like his eyes. If only I'd met him before it was too late.
Based on how long Sean, the man Jonathan had replaced, lasted after being demoted from pet to servant, Jonathan estimated he had two, maybe three more years before The Bitch finished consuming him. I shoved the thought away. Jonathan was my sole friend, and the only living man in the world that could truly understand my predicament. Without his steadying influence, I was certain I'd have gone mad as The Bitch's hold over me perverted my will and prevented me from escaping through the door or by taking my own life.
Over the past two years we'd discussed many things as he mentored me in my current and future role, as Sean had instructed him, and as I would eventually do for the man who replaced me.
"Good," I murmured as I forked a bit of the steak into my mouth.
He smiled at me, ignoring my nakedness. I envied him for his clothes, despite the heat. The Bitch liked the apartment a warm eighty-seven degrees, winter and summer, and I'd complained bitterly about the heat. After the clothes I'd arrived in became worn and no longer fit, he'd encouraged me to simply stop wearing them. When I'd first arrived, to battle the oppressive heat, Jonathan often went naked until he had to leave the apartment, but as his health declined, he seemed to relish the warmth, and now he wore clothes. It hadn't escaped my notice in the last month or so, though he continued to wear a short-sleeved shirt, he'd replaced shorts with long pants.
"Glad you like it."
When I realized I was living in a gilded cage, I'd schemed to escape. Jonathan had encouraged me to try, though he hadn't assisted me. At the time, I hadn't understood why he wouldn't help me, especially when I'd offered to take him with me. I'd first wheedled, and then raged, his eyes sad as he steadfastly refused my pleas for help.
Now I understood. In the beginning, I could make it all the way to the door, and even put my hand on the latch, but try as I might, I couldn't force myself to twist the knob and pull the door open. Until the moment my hand touched the door, I'd desperately wanted to turn the knob, fling the door wide, and to run and never stop, but when it came time for me to open the door, my desire to leave faded. My yearning to run and never stop was replaced by an overwhelming need to remain and fuck The Bitch and never stop. No longer wishing to leave, I always released the knob and turned away, only to mercilessly berate myself minutes later for being weak and stupid.
She was like a drug, a potent elixir that stole my will. Early in my stay, each day, sometimes several times a day, I tried to leave, only to fail. I tried leaving before I fucked her and immediately after. I'd forced myself awake, to throw off the dregs of her spell from the previous night to stumble to the door in the middle of the afternoon, but no matter the time of day, I failed, my desire to leave disappearing before I could open the door.
Soon enough, I could approach the door, but I'd lost even the desire to grasp the knob. Later, I'd pause to stare at the door, wondering if I walked to it if I could open it, but I no longer approached it, and now I simply dreamed of escape. It was clear the longer I remained under The Bitch's influence, the weaker my resolve to escape became. As I slowly chewed the meat, I wondered if anyone had ever made it.
Jonathan had lost even the ability to plot to escape. He was free to leave the apartment, and did so frequently, to perform his duties of maintaining the apartment and keeping The Bitch's pet, me, in good health. He was allowed the privilege because The Bitch knew he'd never betray her and would always return to her lair.
