The Cave

It felt real, the dream.

I dreamed I was naked, shackled to a wall deep in a cave, fed and watered by a creature not quite a man, not quite a beast. His name was Pratt.

And there was another woman there, Amy, who had been there longer than me. Pratt favored her and I could see why. She was strong, beautiful and confident, but she was also wildly jealous whenever Pratt showed the least bit of interest in me. One day, she angered Pratt with her envy and he cast her out of the cave.

I kept having this dream. Every time I closed my eyes, it was always there. And then my chains would rattle softly, reminding me I was still in it and it was all true. True, except for one thing.

Amy had not been banished.

I suspected she was dead.

*

Three days.

Without windows, telling time in the cave was impossible. Before, routine marked passage of time. Berries for breakfast, wild game for dinner, and when the fire was out, it was time to sleep. Now, I didn't know if I'd slept two hours or twelve.

Every time I woke, I'd eavesdrop for Pratt's heavy breathing or low whimpers only to determine if he was still there, then I'd listen to my belly as it called out for food.

I was afraid to cry. I didn't want to waste precious water by weeping it down my face.

Pratt never bothered to build a fire or light any candles. Though I couldn't see him, I knew he was tucked tightly in the bed of straw and furs. Sometimes his faint whines sounded like crying. Whatever it was he'd done to Amy, he was feeling bad about it.

Three days.

I felt partially at fault. The shallow laceration she'd left across my chest when she pushed me was almost all scab now and every time it started to crazily itch, I'd remember that moment everything changed. And yet, I still didn't understand it. Amy made a mistake. She was sorry, but Pratt was unable to forgive her.

But while tethered to the wall, sitting in a puddle of my own piss—cold, hungry, and thirsty—I wondered: who was really being punished?

I had been holding on to the notion Pratt would eventually have to start taking care of himself, that he was going to have to hunt for food, if not for me, then for himself. This was the one thing that kept me going. But sitting on that hard, cold floor with my arms shackled in a "V" above my head, listening to Pratt's muffled whimpers, I was convinced he was going to let himself die and whatever he had done to Amy, he was no longer able to live with himself.

Three days. The longest a human could go without water.

*

"Rules of Three," I had read about last year while doing research for an article I had written about surviving Minnesota winters. It was a fluff piece and most of it was tongue in cheek, but that didn't mean my research wasn't valid.

Three minutes without air, three hours without shelter (during a blizzard), three days without water, and three weeks without food. But there were cases of people who had lasted up to ten days without water. For some reason, I didn't think I was a part of that minority. Although besides the pounding in my head and constant lethargy, I was definitely feeling hungrier than I was thirsty.

But it was water I dreamed of. Swimming naked in a warm spring, surrounded in mist, roaring waterfalls, and balmy air, looking up at blue skies and waving palms, I swallowed the clean water as it came into my mouth. I swam forever, without fatigue, doing water tricks I never knew I could do, propelling underwater like a graceful mermaid—without even plugging my nose with my fingers. I was having the time of my life...until I gulped a mouthful of water and it sputtered down the wrong tube. Floundering, thrashing, I sunk down like a hunk of steel.

I was choking when I woke.

Immediately I was aware my arms were free. They were struggling underneath my body, pushing to sit up so I could catch my breath. An instant later, something warm fell over me and a fur blanket tucked itself around my naked body. I was in Pratt's lap. To keep me partially upright, one of his arms was braced firmly around my shoulder blades. Water dripped from my lips and ran down my neck. In a heartbeat, my coughing fit turned into hysterical sobs.

Everything I had been afraid to cry about before poured out of me. Dehydrating to death, soiling myself, the constant hunger, Amy, my mom, my cat, my editor in LA...it all rushed back to me in a torrent of tears. I was only distantly mindful of Pratt's attempts at comfort: rocking me, smoothing my hair, licking my cheeks raw with a scratchy, flat tongue, soothing me until I was half lucid again. For now, with Pratt, all was forgiven. I was just exalted to be alive.

When all I had left was hiccups and dry heaves, I was put at ease with my head against the side of his narrow ribcage, listening to his solid heart, the zest of pine and musk filling my nostrils, the tips of my fingers stroking the smooth, calvous spot on his breast bone where his fur didn't grow. Pratt never really let me touch him before and the moment was a novelty.

It sickened me how reliant I had become, his pet, dependent on him for all my needs. In the real world, I had been taking care of myself for so long it was debasing to think of myself like this. But I also realized I had been taking Pratt for granted. These last few days reminded me my survival relied solely on his sense of responsibility. If he died, I died.

Soon, I felt his tongue running through the top of my tangled, oily hair. I found this act so calming, so pacifying, especially now after all these days of uncertainty. Shivers and goose bumps occupied my skin when he combed back the hair around my ear. Several times I was nearly asleep right there in his lap, but then he would come across a snarl and shake his head a little to unravel it from the tiny barbs on his tongue.

A little while later, when my hair was smooth and heavy from dampness, I awoke from my half sleep as he lied me down on the soft furs. He hovered over me on his hands and haunches and continued my bath, slathering his tongue across the front of my shoulders.

As his tongue worked its way downwards, focusing on my dirtiest places like my armpits and the sweaty area under my cumbersome breasts, I was floating in near sedation, utterly tranquil. But when he began grooming my pubic hair, part of me began to stir. My breathing rasped in my dry throat and my back arched against my will as his prickly tongue parted my nether lips and cleansed inside every fold and pleat. My hips betrayed me as they began moving to anticipate him, working my heated clitoris under his mouth so that he might touch it, even accidentally. He left me wanting more when he lowered down to scrub my thighs and knees. Faintly whimpering, I gave up and planted my rear back down on the bed.

Stroking my waist with a large, bony thumb, he signaled for me to turn over. I was sure I hadn't the strength to do this, but I managed to roll face down and let him continue his cleaning. I parted my legs in expectation as he neared my backside and lifted my hips off the bed so that most of my weight was on my knees. He gave my sex a few gentle laps from behind and then dragged his tongue through the trench of my buttocks. My groan was stifled in the blankets and I began squeezing fistfuls of fur as he touched that familiar itch. But he only exacerbated it with a few tantalizing passes over my tender sphincter, leaving it on fire as he moved to the small of my back.

He ended the grooming at my hair again, running his tongue through it to make doubly sure it was knot-free and then kneeled by my right side as he carefully flipped me over and slid his arms underneath. Picking me up without effort, he got to his feet and even in the pitch blackness, I knew with a dreadful sink in my belly he was bringing me to those vile chains.

"No," I bemoaned and I could feel fresh tears emerging. "No, please."

I flung my arms around his neck and pressed my face into his sinewy throat. I felt his powerful body bowing forward slightly to put me down, but I clung frantically to him, like a cat to water, and when he dropped my legs to set me on my feet, I managed to hoist them upwards and wrap them desperately around his slender waist.

I had just gotten out of the chains and I wasn't ready for them again. Not only were my wrists still chafed and raw, but I had gone to the edge of death in them. The idea of going back overwhelmed me with claustrophobic panic.

I'm not sure Pratt knew what to think. One moment, his enormous hands were tugging on my hips, cajoling me to release his neck, but in the next he was squeezing me tight, one of those coveting, I'll-never-leave-you hugs. I sobbed harder, shaking like a leaf. Pratt stepped back, away from the wall, and I kissed the underside of his lean jaw, over and over in gratitude, taking cue from Amy on her last day, when she kissed Pratt's feet in persuasion to forgive her.

Instead, Pratt carried me to the fire pit and his hard, beastly gait had a sturdy but odd rhythm. I allowed myself to be put down, my feet touching the gritty floor. I didn't know this area well and stayed glued to my spot, afraid to step on a sharp rock or trip over the pile of lumber. He patted my bare rump insistently, and it took a few seconds for me to realize he wanted me to sit. I did, cautiously feeling around below me until my fingers found the smooth, dry texture of the log bench and I lowered myself slowly, so as not to be poked by stray knots.

He left me there, but I didn't fuss. As long as I wasn't tied up to the wall, I could keep calm. Soon, I heard the brisk snap of branches as he prepared a fire. Later, it would occur to me I should have tried to run, but I wouldn't have gotten far. Not only was I still weak with hunger and sleepy from dehydration, but Pratt's senses were better than mine. If he let me get as far as the cave tunnel, it would be for his own amusement, to watch me pathetically stumble around in the dark. Fire and candles had two uses in the cave: light and warmth and both were for our benefit, not Pratt's.

My

benefit, I corrected myself. There was no "our" or "us" anymore. Only me.

*

The heat of the fire made my knees itch. I had never been naked so close to a blaze before and while I longed for the confidence to bask in its warmth, I sat rather primly next to it, absently rubbing my singed knees, staring at the flames.

Sitting down next to me, close so that the fur of his loincloth brushed my hip, Pratt handed me another cup of water. I looked down at my reflection in it and remembered all those cups of water he brought us that day before he took Amy out of the cave. Now I gathered he'd been overhydrating me, knowing full well he would not be in any mood to take care of me.

Had Amy meant that much to him? Did he actually anticipate a depression so deep he wouldn't be able to maintain his other charge? He had been so angry at Amy, I remembered, and I glanced around the floor for her bird's foot ring. It had been his gift to her and in his fury he'd torn it from her finger and whipped it across the room.

I nursed from the cup, drinking slowly as we watched the fire consume the timber. It was my intension to hold onto this rare occasion by the fire, but my thirst deceived me and before I knew it, I was peering down at my last sip. Afraid Pratt would bring me back to the chains if he knew I was done, I held the cup close to my chest, but a few minutes later, he took it from me anyway and placed it on the floor.

Scooping me, he lifted my body and positioned me across his lap. As a rule, I typically didn't allow men to lift me. I suspected trust issues on my part, but I found it equally annoying how men wanted to prove their masculinity under the guise of romance, no matter how uncomfortable it made me. Not that I couldn't be lifted—although I couldn't always tell if the faint strain in their faces was because they were out of shape or because I fluctuated just outside my ideal weight on the BMI chart.

But I felt quite secure when Pratt carried me and his face was always stress-free, even when I struggled in reservation. Once I knew he only meant to hold me, I settled into his lap like an oversized infant, my legs bent over his right knee while he cradled my neck in the crook of his left elbow.

I gazed up at him. He was keenly watching the fire and I could only see the underside of his delicate chin as the muscles in his jaw flexed in deep thought. His thick, stringy mane of tawny hair draped the front of his shoulders and tiny russet nipples were obscured by coarse, dense chest hair. I had to search to find them. I resisted the urge to reach up and touch one, just to see it pucker up. There was less fur on his abdomen, revealing the vague outline of firm oblique muscles, followed by the vertical strip of dark, bristly curls under his belly button. That, along with a flagrantly swollen vein, disappeared under the belt of his loincloth.

My eyes traveled back up to his face, which was now turned down at me. His expression softened when our gazes locked and then drifted across my body, lingering on my breasts and I saw his head tilt almost lovingly at them. Squeezing the left one, I noticed how I filled more of his hand than Amy had, but he didn't seem to mind. His powerful, reedy fingers massaged me lightly, testing their weight, experimenting with their movement.

I think that's when he noticed the long red scab across just under my clavicles, the span of it nearly went from one shoulder to the other, but it was deepest right under my throat. He touched it lightly with a thoughtful frown in his brow, running his fingers over it like it was brail. It was where Amy cut me with her ring. Not on purpose; her ring had snagged me just right. It was nearly healed now. Some of the scab on the sides had already peeled away, leaving new pink skin. Pratt traced it lightly for a moment. Then he sighed and I think it was partly in arousal, partly in nostalgia, and the shadows on his face danced around as he looked back to the fire.

My insides sharply jerked, wondering if he was thinking of Amy. But I knew it wasn't jealousy I was feeling. It was fear of Pratt's resentment.

Disenchanted, I turned my head and rested my cheek against his hard bicep.

I thought of my father, when he was still alive, back when I was just a teenager. What I most remember about him was his incredibly scratchy face when I'd kiss his cheek, although sometime around 14, we weren't speaking very much. He was a difficult man with a lot of rules. Rules about what I wore, not just outside of the house, but in the house, too. Once, I'd been wearing an oversized sweatshirt turned inside out and it was the fashion at the time to wear it off the shoulder. My father took one look at the exposed shoulder strap of my bra and I thought he was going to jump out of his skin.

Anyway, we had this dog. Dad named her Lady. Lady was a sweet black lab my dad picked up at the pound and liked to take hunting on my uncle's property in rural Duluth. I don't think the dog was very useful, but my dad liked to have her around and Lady liked the exercise.

One day, I got off the school bus and found my dad openly crying in the garage. Back facing me, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, shuddering uncontrollably and weeping loudly. I had never even seen my dad misty-eyed before and I found the whole thing bewildering.

My dad saw me, my shadow I think, and he leaped to his feet so fast, the chair tipped back. He wiped his cheek with the heel of his hand, muttering something about sawdust in his eye as he strode out. Later, Mom told me Lady had bitten the twelve year old boy down the road, in the face. I guess it was no surprise. We didn't know much about the dog's history except she'd been spayed and had her shots. My father had to take Lady into the woods and shoot her himself.

I wondered if that was how Pratt felt about Amy. How he had to put her down for nipping strangers. And I was the stranger.

But Pratt wasn't trying to evade some lawsuit like my father was when he put Lady down. Amy pushed me. That was all. Yes, she probably would have done it again, like Lady probably would have bitten some other jerk kid, but Amy and I weren't animals. Although sometimes it was difficult to make that distinction, especially while Pratt was distractedly stroking my left breast like he was petting the ears of a golden retriever. There was intelligence behind Pratt's eyes, that I could tell, so if he loved Amy, why not get rid of me instead?

I must have dozed off for a few minutes. I woke up when Pratt switched breasts. Inhaling deeply, I arched my back to stretch, glancing down at myself. Both my nipples were fully distended, but it was the glimmer of wetness between my thighs that caught my attention.

Pratt noticed it, too. He laid his free hand on my leg, his fingers pressing into the seam of my thighs, forcing them open. He stroked his thumb through the smear, testing it, and then stirred one black talon around my wiry black hair.

Dropping my arm to the side, I reached around my back, touching the strips of soft mink hanging down between his legs, searching for what I knew was behind them. I wanted to touch him, too, and twisted my shoulder a little further to reach.

But Pratt stopped me. His hand was as big as a catcher's mitt around my upper arm and gentler than I expected. At least he didn't growl at me. Only he was allowed to touch me intimately and I should have known better. Thinking back, I don't even think Amy was allowed to handle his manhood unless he offered it to her.

"Sorry," I muttered, peering down at my hands as I folded them together. I don't know if he understood me. Then it dawned on me he was thinking of Amy again. Still mourning her. Heat flooded to my face as I blushed.

I felt the edge of one hook shaped claw as he lifted my chin. He was already looking down at me and he showed me one finger. I could tell he wanted to tell me something and his eyes unfocused for a moment, considering how to do it. Carefully, he slid his arm out from under my head so that he could gesture with both hands. I raptly watched as he put his hand out, palm up and then used his other hand to scoop something invisible from it and bring it to his mouth.

First, eat.

I smiled shyly and nodded.

*

I was in chains again. Amy's chains. And it was harder than I thought it would be.

Pratt had already gone. I managed to hold it together while he shrugged on his shoulder furs and got ready to collect our dinner, but the moment he disappeared into the tunnel I could feel myself unraveling. Over everything. Being in Amy's chains, the threat of abandonment, how hungry I was—it was all rolled up in a hot ball and sticking to the back my throat.

Not even sitting in the good bed was much consolation. My old chains hung quietly in my range of view, reminding me there was no one I could look to for company and as I lowered myself down to the smooth rabbit pelts, I tried not to remember all the nights I watched Amy lounging indulgently across them. How could I possibly enjoy the good bed when Amy's status was unknown?

Lifting my arms, I wrapped my fingers around the rusty chains to keep the pressure off the battered parts of my wrists. Closing my eyes, I laid my head back on the wall and took deep breaths, meditating helpful affirmations.

Pratt had to go, I reminded myself. If we were going to eat, I knew that he had to, but I was having an irrational reaction to his leaving, an awful notion he might not come back. It wasn't that unreasonable of a thought, it's just I never had to think it before. It never terrified me like it did now. Before, I had Amy to take hints from. Now I just had myself—and horrible, frantic thoughts of dying alone in shackles.