Taken Down 1

Down and Out

Good lord, of course I want to get out of bed. This is going on two weeks and shows no sign of letting up. Sean's been bringing food, water, hell, he'd bring wine and cheese if I asked. He thinks I might be sick, doesn't understand that I wish I were sick—I'd be so, so good at sick. I wish there were something I could point to and say that! That right there, that's why I can barely make it to the bathroom, sit at the kitchen table for maybe five minutes or the back porch for a cigarette, before almost literally crawling back for the bed. The smell of the sheets bothers me, they feel almost painful against the skin of my legs like they're crawling with bits of fire. But I just can't lift myself up, like a flashflood and I'm sinking in it. Nothing even happened, that I can tell, I'm just depressed.

Slivers of light dim around the edges of the drapes, it's evening, and Sean eases the bedroom door open. It creaks more when he does that than if he swung the damned thing in one motion, but I love him for trying to be quiet. He brought chicken and leek soup for dinner, he says.

"Not sure if I can eat," I clear the books off the nightstand but it looks more like my arm flailing and books crashing to the floor. You Are Not Your Brain! and other positive-thinking nonsense.

"It's good cold, too." He sets the tray down and pushes his sleeves up his forearms. "Anything I can do?" But he should know by now. No, no there's nothing he can fucking do—except maybe stop rhyming his sentences.

"Thank you, sweetie. I'm fine."

Saving my strength like it's a bank account, like taking a little out each day so it builds up while I don't really notice. My best friend is throwing me a Get Well party—kind of a tough-love get out of bed and have a good time thing. Sean's going along with it, even though he's never been a huge fan of my friends and they'll be everywhere. Anyway, it's this Friday and I'll have to be presentable, for an afternoon at least, while they put on that self-righteous pillars of strength act, all care and concern for their depressed friend. Even just thinking about it maybe I'm a little tired of them myself.

Sean sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, smoothing absently at the comforter. We'd met during the mid-20s realization that college really was the place to find a spouse. No one's ready to commit—but then? The office's out of the question—it's terrible when it blows up, and if it doesn't you're sitting across the dinner table talking about what? Exactly. And the bar scene, well if he ever doesn't come home on time one night you know precisely what he's doing. So it was a friend of a friend of a sister's friend kind of thing and we settled into a routine pretty quickly. Don't get me wrong: I thought Sean was sexy as hell. He had this artist's perpetual slouch going, like he was always vaguely somewhere else, but it looked just as much hard-to-get as bashful. Of course I know now it was all bashful and no hard-to-get, that it was feeling so out of place that he hardly knew where he even was. Couldn't pinpoint what style he should be fitting into but it came across as I Couldn't Give A Fuck.

Besides, I like guys in waffle-knit henleys and scarves. Call me crazy.

"Maybe you'd like to lay on the couch for a while. Watch some television?" He's tugging at the blankets, mostly playfully, almost a smile.

"Lie. It's lie on the couch."

Sean puts his hands back in his lap. These are kind of how our evenings have been going. Our mornings, too. He proposed about a minute before I was just going to go ahead and ask him, we both figured out it was time months before. He was so cute. Like acting out what a proposal should be, or one he'd seen somewhere, he got me all dressed up and took me to a dinner we couldn't afford. When he ordered the bottle of wine I knew but naturally he waited until dessert was on the table. I'd like to say it's been a roller-coaster since but lately it's only that first drop, without the arms in the air or the screaming.

Sean leaves when I close my eyes, the door slowly creaking behind him.

###

The ladies are already bottles-deep into the case of two-buck Chuck and it's only 3-something o'clock. Sean came in, said hellos and turned right back around to make another run to the store. Can't say I blame him. I didn't even know we had this many folding chairs.

This morning, or, rather, the time when I woke was about exactly as I'd expected. Sitting up, swinging my legs to the floor, something was running laps around my head. Standing took a few minutes. I couldn't bring myself to get out of the shower until the water went cold, forcing me out. Standing on the cold tile—why, oh why had I insisted on this beige, freezing Spanish tile?—in front of the mirror fogged over and streaming rivulets of water, I forced the whole world into focus. My goodness, I couldn't help thinking, I've really let myself go. Holding the weight of my breasts, letting them go, squeezing the tiny bit of fat around my middle, even as the mirror showed all evidence to the contrary—objectively an hourglass figure—all I saw was a 34 year-old unshaven slob. Almost compulsively I stroked my fingers through the damp and overgrown hair that wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

In the bedroom I rifled the closet for a dress I could hide in. It's counter-productive, of course, baggy clothes make everything worse but no one who feels the tiniest bit self-conscious can help themselves. Opening the underwear drawer, though, and sorting through cotton, frill, and lace I settled on a see-through black thong that Sean had surprised me with it seems like a lifetime ago. Seemed somehow the bare minimum I could do, a small naughtiness only I'd know about. Stepping into them, feeling them not uncomfortable but definitely tighter than the last time I wore them, nowhere near covering my bush, they were like a weird talisman to get me through the day.

My friends mercifully entertained themselves in the living room while I poured an unreasonably full glass of wine in the kitchen, hoping to drink it down to a decent level before rejoining them. Mindy appeared at my shoulder. "How're you holding up, sweetie?" she rubbed tight circles around the small of my back.

"Oh, I'm sure you know..." she's the only one of my friends Sean would ever talk to about anything.

She pulled a chair out from the table, "They're killing me with their gossip. Why don't we sit for a minute? Catch up."

But what could I say? I bored even myself: yes, I'm still in bed maybe 20 hours a day. No, I don't know what's wrong, and no, I have no idea what anyone can do to help. Sean is super-supportive, he's an angel. How many times can I say the same thing over and over and over?

But Mindy listened to it again anyway, an elbow on the table and chin resting in an upturned hand. Sipping her wine often enough that it was OK for me to drink mine. She's too much, sometimes. I heard my voice cracking—I'm sure she thought it was self-pity or whatever but really it's just that I'll never be able to tell her how much she means to me. She sat up straight, took one of my hands in hers. She had a glint in her eye I couldn't explain.

Mindy has a PhD in something literature- or psychology-related, I can never remember. Or the psychology of literature, maybe. At times if feels like she's my shrink, especially lately—she's so good at getting me to talk.

"It'll get better soon. Shh, shhh, shhh. No, I have a good feeling about this. Just give it some time and I'm sure you'll feel a lot better." But surely she's lost all touch with reality. I drank off the rest of my wine, refilled the glass.

"Well," turning back from the counter, "OK, I guess we have to go back out there."

I knew they would all have to leave, eventually, but the evening felt interminable. I was barely conscious saying the last of the goodbyes, both drunk and exhausted. This must be what alcoholics describe as a blackout—my body did move, did hold me upright. My mouth formed I guess the proper words, judging by everyone's reactions, though my God I couldn't tell you how. Again finally in the bedroom I kicked my heels into the corner and lifted my dress over my head, tossing it off to join the shoes, and literally fell into bed. The closest to bliss I'd felt in weeks, but really just relief, washed over like a rising tide and sleep crashed into me.

###

I woke in the dark. No that's not right. I woke with something covering my face and I couldn't see through it. Must've pulled the blankets up in my sleep. But I felt cold. Reaching to take off whatever it was I found that I couldn't. Reach, that is. My arm caught on something. Shifting, I felt the comforter under the bare skin of my back, reaching again I found both my arms restrained. What the hell? Tried to curl up, but my legs were, too. Panic. My pulse jumped immediately through every part of me, banged away at my temple. My breath quickened to gasping and gulping and felt stuck at the same time. I just lay there pinned like a butterfly, squirming and tossing my head, blind, back and forth. After I've no clue how long, and I don't know what it was exactly that did it, I started to calm down.

Resignation, maybe.

I took stock in the situation and tried to mentally catch up to myself. Last things I remember. I undressed and collapsed into bed. I was saying goodbye to the last of the girls to leave. I didn't feel drugged, I don't think. Tired, beyond tired. I was definitely drunk. Too drunk and too tired but no, nothing more than that and, besides, I was at home and Sean was right there next to me, arm around my waist. It's not like I was abducted or anything, surely I'm still here safe at home. There has to be an explanation. Mindy was last to leave, that's right, and I was standing with her there in the doorway, she was holding the screen door open and I was looking past her into the night sky. It was late, that's right. She gave me this soothing hug and I went to kiss her cheek. She turned toward me, quick and awkward, and I caught her on the lips then we laughed. Sean walked her to the car and they talked for it seemed a little long while he held the car door, she sat there giggling in the glow of the interior light. I held up the living room wall, that's right, standing and waiting for Sean to come back inside. He sent me up to bed, said he wanted to clean a bit. Maybe he wanted to drink alone for a while, as he has been lately late at night, and who could blame him? After the day he had. Hell, after the weeks he's had.

I'm realizing I'm on top of all the covers, on my back bound spread-eagled to the bed and the familiar tightness of last night's panties still thankfully digging into my hips and, with the rolling and tossing earlier, riding up and tingling in other places. Wow, haven't felt that in a while.

###

After long enough you get used to anything, I think they say. I suspect they're wrong, but I sure am starting to notice the basic things, like being really thirsty. Something I couldn't've imagined even crossing my mind, I don't know, a few hours ago? Yesterday? Time hasn't really come back yet. Thirst has. Dry mouth with a vengeance, like my tongue's grown a layer of fur. And my tummy may very well grumble soon, maybe most surprising, really, I haven't felt hungry in so long. I can't believe I haven't wet myself yet.

I feel weight lowering onto the bed next to me, can't believe I didn't hear anyone enter the room—what, was the door open this whole time? A finger brushes my jawline, through the hood, gentle and like you'd pet a cat expecting her to lift her face for it, purring. Hands take hold of the hood's material, the edge somewhere down around my shoulders, and roll it up to my nose.

"Thirsty yet?" It's fucking Sean. You've got to be kidding me. I mean, I guess of course it had to be, and I had to've known this whole time. But seriously, kind of a letdown.

"You motherfucker. What the fuck?" I can't believe my own energy, my own strength, struggling at the restraints. The ferocity in my voice scares me. I'll punch him so hard in the face.

"Here, I've got a glass of water for you," the everydayness, the calm, it pisses me off more than anything else. "You'll have to lift your head to drink it. Just a little. C'mon, honey, you can do it," his hand at the back of my head as if to help me. I'll pull these straps or whatever out of the damned wall. I'll rip them apart.

He's got the rim of the glass to my lips, my mouth is clenched shut. He's tilting it, pouring. Water runs down my chin, neck, down over my shoulders and tits. I can't fit what's happening into any picture I've seen before. I'm so thirsty but won't drink. I hate my husband, this lovely man who's cared for me beyond what anyone could ever even ask for, let alone expect, for far too long. My nipples are hardening as the water passes over them, they're begging to be pinched between a thumb and a forefinger. Please, someone, Jesus. I don't care, let me do it, anyone.

I didn't want to but my mouth opened against my will. I'm chugging the water he offers, that he's pouring down my throat as the rest spills washing over the rest of me.

"You'll need to pee soon, I know. It's OK. You just have to trust me that everything's taken care of. You trust me, don't you baby?" Trust him? Wait, back up, everything's taken care of? What is everything?

He takes the panties off. Or, down. They're stuck somewhere around my knees since my legs are tied down, and leaves me with a bedpan shoved up under me. He just thinks of everything, doesn't he? Son. Of. A. Bitch.

###

Left alone with nothing to hold onto but my warm, fuzzy thoughts, this is a strange experience. I'm rather forced to admit that, beyond merely wanting to get up like I always have, given the opportunity I would. Almost as soon as the option was taken away, in fact, it's pretty much the only thing I can think about. And, of course, looking at this fairly very little has changed because here I am, still in bed. To be even more fair, if that's possible, who can say for sure that I really would get out of this bed and get back into my old life if I actually could.

These are the kinds of things I have nothing but time to think about, and the back/forth is spinning into knots and mostly just making me sleepy, with a bit of a headache to boot.

Sean is being his usual, sweet and supportive self—acting like there's nothing different or weird going on—and it's even more infuriating than ever. He always gave me my space, left me to work through whatever needed working through on my own. He didn't want to pressure me, he would say. And that's still his MO. Only coming in to bring food, water, take care of other bodily necessities. There isn't even the annoying door creaking, anymore, either he's pushing it firmly open like a man or, more likely, it's just constantly left open. But I find myself wanting him around more. He's sleeping out on the couch—like he has for a while now, watching TV and drinking and whatever—and, granted, I'm not tied in any way that would be comfortable to share the bed with me but I do wish he'd curl up with me for a while. I feel kind of alone in a way I never did before, having to wait for him to come in and see me, not being able to see him, or go out to the other room or call Mindy or anything whenever I want.

So, out of boredom mostly, I do what little I can. When Sean is here I make a fuss about eating, drawing it out, making him stay a little longer each time. And I don't like to think that I'm consciously doing it, but I've been really trying to control my bodily functions so he can't just come in and put the bedpan under me and empty it and be done with the whole thing. No, he has to keep coming back to check on me. It's a small thing, and spiteful in its own way and honestly a little shameful how satisfying it is.

When he isn't here I roll around on my back as much as I can, wiggling my ass on the sheets beneath me. I can get myself worked up pretty good that way, panties riding up and digging in around my crotch and the thong pulled tight in the cleft of my ass. I don't know, maybe it's just counter-productive—I haven't cum yet though I think I'm getting close. Needless to say I'm making quite a mess of myself and it's creating a lot of extra work for him. He lets me lie here in it for a while—but not too long—before coming in and changing me and cleaning everything up. He's been giving me spongebaths and changing my panties regularly. Always picking my skimpy thongs, it seems like on purpose since he's probably got to dig around in the drawer for them instead of picking whatever plain-old pairs are right there on top.

I'm surprised he hasn't shaved me yet—I thought the whole point of these lacy panties was how they looked against bare skin. The skimpiness, the see-through, the butterflies with the open crotch—little strings of fabric running down under either side of my pussy and leaving the middle exposed. They're supposed to go with a shaved little-girl looking thing, right? That's how it's supposed to be, but here they're not covering a damned thing, hair not even poking out but just everywhere. Don't get me wrong, I kind of like it. It feels aggressive, somehow. He bought them, he keeps putting them on and leaving me here while I guess, what, he's standing out there looking through the open door at me bound here. Well, if that's it then I'm fine, splayed for him to view. He can look all he wants.

###

"Are you ready?" he asks. Ready for what, I want to ask. His thumb is rubbing up and down along the sheer fabric still covering my pussy. I must be soaking through already, it's been so long. Is he finally going to take advantage of my body tied and waiting for him? About damned time, really. At least this, finally, makes sense. I mean, I've been here for days and he's just now getting around to fucking me? Who doesn't stick his cock in a bound, spread body nearly naked on the bed? Who just looks through the open door?

Sean fingers me slowly, up. Then down. He keeps working me toward an edge and he knows just where that is. God, he hasn't forgotten a thing.

"Nice and slow, baby, I want to make sure you're OK." Oh fuck me, already, you bitch. I can feel myself dripping between my legs. "That's a good girl."

Good girl? Fuck.

His tongue now, flat against the silky fabric. Gaaawwwwwwd, that's good. Little laps of his tongue, like a puppy on Quaaludes. Like he remembers what he's doing but as if we're divorced or something. Like he doesn't still own this.

I want to stay quiet. I don't want him to know he's getting to me. But good God damn. "Eat me. You motherfucker." He holds his tongue flat against me, with pressure and stillness and, and he just stops. "I'm sorry. Please?"

I feel the weight shift on the bed, his tongue leaves me. His fingers play along and inside the elastic of my panties, between my legs. Kisses along my inner thighs, thumbs reaching in and rubbing up and down on my labia. Mmmmmmmmmm.

"Is that good, baby?"

I moan. His thumbs slide along the outside, the damned outside of the sheer fabric. I love it but it only reminds me how imprisoned I am. "What's that, baby?" he asks, soft and coy.

"Please, please touch me."

When he pulls at the elastic and reaches his fingers inside I've never felt anything quite like it. He's slow, gentle, it's like tender and loving and satisfying some small, dark corner of my soul. I finally know, no matter how long it takes, he's going to take care of me.

I'm not sure I'm even conscious when he leaves the room. I'm basking in the relief, sort of half-moaning still and aimlessly writhing. It's of course dark, at least under my hood, and he's gone.

###

I wake to the hood being peeled up just above my nose. Time to eat, I think. And I'm right, sort of. Sean rubs the head of his cock across my lips. This is getting kinky—he doesn't even usually like blowjobs. But I do, and it's been a long time since I've had the chance to give one. I open my mouth and close my lips around the tip, tongue flicking but he pulls away. You've got to be kidding, right?