My life vanished three years ago, the winter I moved to Charleston. My first semester as a college junior, I transferred to be near Chris. We had broken up earlier. My ambivalence about his lifestyle shattered our relationship. This time I had vowed to make it work. Still, our renewed lives proved tense.
Chris suggested a weekend on the coast. We dined at a café near the beach. Chris's cousin owned it. A buff, hearty man with a thick Greek accent, he wrapped me in his arms when we arrived and introduced himself to me as Yannis. He escorted us to the patio.
The evening was crisp with a slight chill in the air. The ocean breeze combined deliciously with the scents of autumn. Chris seemed distant for the first time since we reunited.
Yannis showered me with praise and smiles. Perversely, my stomach clenched, my temples tightened for I was afraid Chris might take it wrong. But he hardly seemed to notice. So I smiled as Yannis spent half the evening at our table. We talked and drank.
When Yannis saw me shiver, he went in the back and dug up a wool sweater for me to use. A perfect host, a steady stream of lamb dishes, roasted vegetables, and stuffed grape leaves flowed onto our checkered table. Yannis forced me to try Retsina. I grimaced but choked down the resinated wine. He laughed. Even Chris, who stood off talking into his cell phone, spared me a wry grin.
Eventually, the café closed. Yannis locked the door. We drank more wine and Ouzo. Finally, we had to leave. I excused myself. The restroom was blue tile and green towels. In the mirror, I examined my body trying for answers in the mirror. My skin is soft and smooth, so fair, like a baby's. My face looks wan.
I wore a conservative white blouse and plaid skirt. Underneath was a black silk corset with ribbons. It encircled my bust, and tapered my already narrow waist, accentuating my hips. My breasts are small, but shapely underneath the corset that squeezed them tightly together. I wore shoes with stiletto heals, giving me stature. I dressed for Chris's pleasure.
Pulling lipstick from my purse, I colored my soft, succulent lips. I thickened my eyelashes with mascara, and brushed my long hair, leaving it to lie softly around my shoulders. I sprayed vanilla perfume between my breasts and behind my ears. His chosen scent, it once seemed odd, but now wearing it is as natural as breathing.
I loved him so. We left the café to walk along the beach on our way back to the motel. Chris pulls me off to the side and points up into the hills. I can barely make out a half-built construction. I think the wood and concrete frame is intended for someone's home.
We walk up to it. It is empty. He leads me onto the darkened concrete foundation. I am nervous. He moves close. His hand sketches the contours of my body. He gently caresses my shoulders. I look up, eyes glistening, nearly in tears. He moves his hand to my neck, caressing my delicate skin. With two fingers, he encompasses the circumference of my neck, pressing gently, possessively, a lovers touch. My eyes burn with desire, for what I am not sure. "My princess under glass," he says.
I look up curiously. My hands caress his back muscles, his warm, broad shoulders. I inhale his scent. I swear eternal love.
He turns me in his arms. He holds my wrists behind me. And I shiver as he snaps handcuffs in place, knowing I must prove my love. I feel his arousal press into me from behind. I feel helpless, scared, excited all at the same time. I know the risk. We trespass on another's property. But I want to show him my faith and trust. When we reunited, I signed a covenant for him. I granted him complete control over my body. Now I prove those words to him.
He guides me to a beam. I rest on it, balancing as best I can. He slides my skirt up around my thighs. His fingers caress my buttocks, sending a shiver through me. He unclips my silk stockings. My breath constricts as I feel a cold blade against my skin. He slices my panties away. He blindfolds me.
I listen as he brushes the area where I stand clean of debris bound. He removes my shoes. I step from my stockings. The concrete chills my feet. I curl my toes against its roughness.
I gasp when his fingers slide into my sex, but then bite my lip. Despite the cold, my skin feels feverish. Sweat rolls down my back and pearls up on my face. His fingers ripple over my body as if he played a piano. He kisses the back of my neck. I turn toward him. He pulls at my tongue gently with his mouth. His hands continue there magic. I pant, my sighs grow loud, and my knees buckle.
He catches me. His breathing is labored. He leans into me. I press back. I smell the starch of his shirt, his aftershave. He has me kneel. I look up questioning. He whispers, "You aren't done yet." His hands go to my ankles. He chains them together.
"Open your mouth," he whispers. I obey but I want to cry. I want this to be over. When he slips something soft and rubbery into my mouth I briefly panic. The gag reflex kicks in as he twists something underneath my hair, snapping it into place behind my neck.
He never silenced me before.
I hear his steps fade away. His scent lingers. I tug futilely at the cuffs. I feel abandoned. I toss my head. I cry softly.
Time stretches as I wait for his return. I don't know if twenty minutes or an hour goes by. The cold cools whatever ardor remains and I shiver. I think I hate Chris. I may not forgive him after he frees me.
Suddenly, I hear the rustling of falling leaves. I tell myself the wind kicked up. Footsteps? I freeze. Yes, footsteps sound on the concrete foundation.
My sudden hope turns to terror though. I bite my lip, causing a drop of blood to well up, mixing with the moisture of my mouth. The salty, metallic taste spreads like a visceral foreboding over my tongue. Chris wears loafers. These steps sound heavier, like work boots.
Blindfolded, I cannot see, but my eyes stray nervously from side to side as if I had vision. Panic sends mental images of rape and murder flashing through my mind. Dead without underwear in some ditch is how the headline will read. I'm so my mother's daughter, if my hands had been free, doubtless, I would have tugged at my skirt, now bunched up my thighs. Instead, I pulled at the handcuffs and clenched my thighs together.
I could have tried to stand. I could see myself hopping away like a giant bunny. But if it was Chris, I'd look the fool. If it was someone else, I'd draw attention to my plight.
The steps paused before me. Heavy breathing fractured the air. An older man, I wondered, out of breath. He smelled of tobacco, cigar smoke maybe, not the acrid smell of a cigarette, but a pungent, almost sweet scent.
I would have begged, offered money. I would have tried to explain my state. But those words remained unspoken. I broke into gagged sobs, tears streaming down my face. A heavy hand roughly patted my head. "Shh, don't cry," a deep male voice cooed.
A moment later he flipped me to the ground, straddling my body, pinning my arms to my sides with his knees. "Lets get you bundled up," he said. Dazed, it took precious seconds for panic to rise up. I began to struggle and writhe as he wrapped me in something. Tighter and tighter, he bound me in sheeting. It circled my chest, above and below my breasts, cutting into my shoulders, constricting my every movement.
"That ought to keep you quiet," a man's deep voice told me. "I'll be a moment sweetheart." I realize bitterly that I had been incredibly foolish. I listen as he walks off a short distance. His voice rumbles conversationally, but I can only make out, "we're clear now."
His heavy steps spoke of his return. Madly, I struggle. Its useless but I cannot help myself. He stands there. Finally, I admit what I knew when I began and fall still.
At five foot seven, I'm not small, though, I lost weight this past year, trying to satisfy Chris's need for me to have a boyishly slim figure. But though I weighed less than the one hundred and thirty pounds at which I started the year, my thighs and hips could never be lean enough for his pleasures. Nonetheless, this man lifted me easily and slung me up and over his shoulders.
I soon heard a chain rattle and then another metallic sound. I felt other hands helping to carry me. The two moved me up steps. I cried in pain as my head hit something hard.
"Sorry love," the voice said. Objects soft and hard brushed my body as they carried me. Eventually they laid me disoriented upon a softness that suggested a bed. Soon an engine started and then movement, a motor home perhaps.
My head was lifted and I felt a kiss press against my forehead. Then headphones slid over my ears. The engine noise faded to into a heavenly voice, the voice of Charlotte Church singing Summertime. Her voice looped continuously around that one lovely song.
I had intermittent panic attacks as hours passed. My head felt like it flew free from my body. I itched. And eventually, I urinated into the blanket and welcomed the discomfort it brought. When I finally felt a touch at my shoulder, I felt only relief.
