Liana

 

 

 

He left. This is the first time he’s left the house since I’ve been here, at least as far as I know. He could have left at times when I was taking a nap. I have so little to do, and I am often so exhausted from the things we do together that midday naps have become a habit.

Today is different. I was still stirred up from our shower session when he took me downstairs to have breakfast with him. He may think that I was trying to be a good girl for him, but when he fucked me on the kitchen counter, it really was all about me. I took what I needed from him, savoring it as he rammed his considerable length inside me, climaxing in record time.

He looked confused when I thanked him afterward, but equally pleased. He never mentioned anything about leaving, but now that I see a car driving away, I’m all the more happy about that kitchen quickie. I so desperately needed it, and I hate the longing sadness that overcomes me as I realize I’m alone.

The windows in my room are facing in such a way that it tells me very little about this house and its location. I cannot see the entrance or the driveway from here, but I can guess that it must be to the left, around the corner.

I wonder why he didn’t tell me that he was leaving. Does he not want me to realize that I’m here by myself?

After he fucked me in the kitchen, he urged me to go back to my room immediately, not even letting me finish up clearing the table.

“It will be dealt with,” he said when I asked about it, and I figured that he meant that he would take care of it. But he left just a few moments after locking the door to my room, visibly in a hurry.

I’m standing at the window, looking out across the vast landscape surrounding the mansion. I wonder if he’d tell me where we are if I ask. It’s very unlikely, and I have a feeling that this is just another part of the deal, not knowing where we are. If this is all a paid and planned set-up, I’m pretty sure there’s also a time frame attached to it. A time frame I’m supposed to know about, so I can’t ask him about that either.

A part of me wishes I really was the woman he ordered, or at least that I knew what she knows about this. She probably knows a lot more about him, too. His name, his age, his occupation, mundane stuff like that.

Not knowing bothers me. I may have figured out bits and pieces, but I still have so many questions. And even worse, I feel myself getting attached to this man, and I’m sure that’s definitely not part of the deal.

It’s just a twist of fate that I’m here under his control instead of the woman he originally thought he was getting. Me of all people. In my mind, I’ve been traveling to dark places like what this whole experience has been like, many times before. I’ve touched myself to the fantasies buzzing in my brain of being bound and forced to obey. I’ve begged Luke to spank and choke me when we were together, but he was appalled by me, and he told me I was broken and sick.

I always knew I wasn’t normal, and I knew I wasn’t attracted to normal. I stayed with Luke because I hoped those dark desires would go away. If you act normal long enough, it must become part of the routine, right?

Now since this man took me, it has reversed all my efforts to become normal, peeling away layer after layer to reveal the warped mind underneath. And I’m beginning to love every moment of it. I don’t want to lose it. I want to know how much further we can go together, how deep this can get.

My hand wanders up to my empty throat, tracing along the lines where the collar used to be. He never put it back on after bringing me back upstairs. I wonder if this morning was the beginning of our goodbye? Is he preparing me for my departure?

Just as I want to turn away from the window and retreat to the bed for another nap, something catches my attention. It’s a car arriving at the house. I barely ever see cars on the country road passing by the house, and if I do, they’re usually just driving by.

My first hope is that he’s returning, but I realize it’s not his car. This one is red and doesn’t look nearly as expensive as the one he was driving. And it’s slowing down in front of the house, disappearing from my view.

I hurry over to the door to my room, closing my eyes and pressing my ear against the crack of the doorframe to listen for possible movement downstairs.

My eyes open wide when I actually hear the sound of a heavy door opening and closing. It must be the front door. I hold my breath when I can hear footsteps moving around on the first floor. They sound different than the steps I hear when he’s moving around in the house. These are faster and smaller, and they are loud on the tiled floor in the entrance area. Heels. It must be a woman.

I take a deep breath, focusing on the sound as the steps fade away. I’m not familiar enough with the floor plan of the house to know where the person might be heading, but I can tell that she isn’t coming upstairs.

This could be it. My first chance to speak to another person since arriving here. My chance to get all the answers I’m seeking.

My chance to get away.

And yet, I don’t make a sound. I don’t scream for help. I don’t bang against the door. I just sit there, on my floor, in the room that has become my prison for the past two weeks.

Quietly waiting until I hear the front door open and close again, watching from the window as the red car drives away from the house. Leaving me here alone again.