Last night in the hotel, after we ate and talked for a while, (he was funny and warm and had great stories), he told me to stay in the room as long as I liked, take a bath, enjoy the opulence and, with a final kiss, he left me.
This morning my doorbell rings and I answer it to the, now familiar, smiling woman from the florists.
“You really are a lucky girl!” she grins at me as she hands me an enormous arrangement of sweet scented hyacinths and freesias.
I thank her, close the door and rush to open the accompanying card, excited to see what he has planned this time.
The card : “You taste as sweet as these smell.”
That’s all?! No instructions?
I am surprised at how disappointed I feel.
It has been five days and nothing from him.
I have hardly slept.
I cannot concentrate on anything.
I drift through my days on autopilot, counseling my clients, trying to focus on what they are saying, but I am not really present.
I rush home in the evenings to see if he is at my door.
I am stunned at the realization of how very little I actually know about him.
We have met three times.
He has fucked me twice.
I have only his name. No phone number. No address. He has kept himself a mystery.
All I have is the number for the publishing firm who arranged our meeting for him to research the psychology of trauma for his new book.
I will not allow myself to call his editor. I must maintain some small scrap of dignity in this… situation.
I go to a book shop and buy one of his books. His eyes stare out at me from the photo on the back cover. He is very serious looking in the photo. Unsmiling. Tough looking, just as a writer of dark twisted thrillers should look.
I want so desperately to see him.
To talk to him.
To touch him.
I sit in the bath at night, my moods shifting from despair to irritation to frustration and back to sadness, as I wonder what I did wrong.
What did I do to disappoint him?
Was I not good enough for him?
Is he fucking another woman right now?
Is he ok? Has anything happened to him?
I am not sure how long I can bear this.
His absence is killing me.
I am locking up my counselling room for the night. I have stayed later than usual, tying to catch up on reading and recording therapy notes.
My muscles ache from tension and I feel the beginnings of a headache coming on.
I have resigned myself to the fact that I might not ever see him again.
That I might never feel the things in my body that he made me feel.
That my life will never feel the same now that he has had me.
I am walking home in the dark, the street empty, maybe due to the drop in temperature recently and the light mist falling. I have no umbrella so I add to my list of annoyances that my hair is going to be a frizzy mess when I get home.
“What the fuck does it matter? No one will be there to see you,” I think miserably.
In the quite of the street I become aware of footsteps behind me. As like most women walking alone in the dark, my senses are on high alert.
I pick up my pace, eager to just get home.
The footsteps behind me speed up and I feel a jolt of adrenaline shoot through my system.
“Stay calm, stay focused, just walk tall and fast…” but I am starting to feel scared and very alone and vulnerable.
I am still about ten minutes from my house and my eyes are frantically searching the road ahead of me for signs of life.
The footsteps are definitely getting closer but I dare not turn around.
Before I know what has happened, I feel a large hand grasp the back of my neck and a pathetic tiny squeal leaves my lips.
I have no control anymore as I find myself shoved, by my attacker, to my left, entering a service alleyway for a closed shop.
“Oh Sweet Jesus, fuck! Please don’t let this be happening…” I think of all the clients I have counseled, and their recounting of rape and abuse, and panic clouds my vision. I think I might be about to, perhaps mercifully, pass out.
I hear a low chuckle from behind me and feel warm breath close to my ear as he leans in and whispers, “Miss me much?”
I spin around and slump against the dirty concrete wall as I look up at him.
“Fuck! You!” I scream at him, panic-stricken and completely terrified. My open hand automatically flies out to slap him but he is fast and grabs my wrist and twists it painfully to stop me.
Then his lips are on mine, tongue deep inside my mouth, and he pins me roughly to the wall
He breaks the kiss/assault and grabs my jaw forcing me to look up at him.
“Don’t. Ever. Try. To. Hit. Me. Again.” His eyes are so dark in the shadows of the alley that I cannot be sure, but I think I hear a trace of amusement in his command.
His mouth is back on mine, stealing my breath from me. His hand forces my coat open and are immediately under my top searching for my breast. He pushes the underwire cup of my bra up and pulls hard on my nipple, while his other hand pops open the button on my jeans and forces its way down between my legs.
I am hot and wet instantly. I am vaguely aware of the fact that we are just off the street in an alley and that at any time we could be seen.
But I don’t care.
I just want him.
He is back and that is all I have wanted.
His fingers are deep inside me, thumb rubbing my clitoris roughly, not painful but very, very close. His fingers twist my nipple hard and I cry out a small gasp.
I do not know if it was the fright, the adrenaline or the fact that it is just him here pleasuring/punishing me but I cannot fight off the explosion of my orgasm any longer. He has only been kissing and touching me for a couple of minutes and that is enough to take me over the edge, as I cling to his shoulders to stop myself sinking to the filthy ground.
He pulls his hand from my jeans and glares down into my eyes as he pushes his wet fingers into my mouth and I taste myself.
“I missed you baby girl,” he smiles down at me, “Now, let’s get you home so I can fuck you properly.”
We lie facing each other on my bed. He has just finished pummelling me harder than he ever has and we are both damp with sweat and panting.
He reaches over and traces the outline of my lips with his little finger, tickling me.
“Where did you go?” I ask.
“That is no concern of yours baby girl. I come and I go as I please,” he casually pinches my lower lip and twists it until it hurts then releases it.
“I was scared. I was worried something had happened to you,” I whisper.
Sighing, he sits up and looks down on me, frowning, “Don’t be a bore.”
His hand reaches down between my legs and cups me, he slides his fingers inside me, “As if I could stay away from this for long,” then brings his hand up and sucks on his fingers, grinning at me.
“I had no way to contact you.”
“You don’t need to. I will arrange when we meet,” he tilts his head and smiles at me as if I am a child that needs things explained to them over and over again, “This is how it is with us.”
I decide to let it go.
He is right.
This is how we are.
I think I love him.
Copyright 2014 by MsT secretgarden. All rights reserved.