18
AMBRA
Seven years before.
I rub the back of my hand across my lips. I still sense that man's taste. It's poison. He’s slowly contaminating me. I’ll get sick and never recover again.
“Drink some water.” My kidnapper passes me a full glass. “Slowly or you'll get sick.”
I drink, swallowing slowly. If he thinks I can trust him, he's totally wrong. I saw how he remained motionless enjoying the show, with those immobile and absent eyes, catapulted who knows where, while I was stripped of essential pieces: dignity, freedom, body and soul.
I put my glass on the table and stop looking at him, even though I recognize that it’s really difficult not to look at him. I also thanked him and I am deeply ashamed. I resume the lost lucidity and look around. The room is small, there is a very high window and a door just steps away from me. I could run out, as the other man is lying in the garage, maybe half-dead.
“How long have I been here?”
“Three and a half weeks.”
“Th-three?” I'm speechless. I can’t believe I’ve been here for so long.
“Are you hungry?” he gets up and looks in a bag, from which he pulls out a sandwich. I notice that my fingers haven’t ceased trembling and I try to stop them by trapping them in a fist.
He puts the sandwich on the table, I take it, look at him and…
“Take me home!” I scream, throwing it at him.
He leaps from the chair and runs to me. I'm terrified again.
He grabs my hair behind my neck and pulls my head back, growling a few inches from my face.
“I’ve just avoided you being raped by that bastard, you could show a bit of gratitude!” He pulls harder and I bow my back to avoid opposing him and so to get hurt. “Now you're going to eat the sandwich you've dropped on the ground, you'll finish it, get some more water and then go back to the garage. That's your place!”
I lament, groan, but I don’t want him to think I can be intimidated by this absurd attitude. For a moment I thought he could help me get home, but I was wrong. He's cruel, as usual.
The ring of his cell phone interrupts us. My skin has finally stopped burning from his grasps.
“Hello?” I try to limit my sighs, hoping to be able to hear his interlocutor. Something is heard, but it’s not clear. “We'll talk again soon. It was necessary.”
I suppose they knew what happened and my heart was thumping hard to think that the other kidnapper woke up.
“I don’t care,” he snorts, but then becomes meek. “All right. I didn’t want to oppose you. I'll take care of her.” He pauses and then says: “It will be done.”
What will be done? My God!
I sit back on the chair. His promise doesn’t reassure me, seeing the way he looks at me. The phone call ends and he puts the phone in his pocket.
I hear a noise behind me and I jump up. That monster has his ski mask drenched in blood. If he was unrecognizable before, I can’t imagine his face now. Instinctively I run to my kidnapper and hide behind his back. He pushes me even further behind, telling me that he wants to continue to protect me.
“You're dead,” the other mutters, holding his stomach and trying to stand up.
“I haven’t finished with you yet,” my kidnapper replies.
“You had accepted the bet, you agreed… I don’t understand why you've suddenly withdrawn. What's up? Did you feel sorry for her?”
The bet? What are they talking about?
My body begins to refuse the protection of my kidnapper, I move away from him and step back to the wall. He turns and stares at me as if he was caught.
I'm horrified and disappointed. Deeply disappointed.
“How gross,” I whisper. “You're disgusting!” My legs collapse and I slide to the floor. I cover my face with my hands and I can’t hold back the tears anymore.
“Get out of here, fucker!” I hear him shouting.
“Yes, I'm leaving. I'll leave you with your whore.”
I hide my face between my knees and try to cry as quietly as possible. I realize I’m alone again, but with him. He is perceived in the air as a cloud that aspires oxygen.
“Get up!”
I don’t follow his order and I feel pulled up bodily.
“You didn’t want to protect me, you wanted me to be hurt by him,” I scream.
“Yes,” he just says yes, and I sink into the worst disappointment. “Now stop whimpering.” He pulls me, he bends to get the sandwich - now half wrapped - and pulls me away to the garage. Again.
I try to be strong and counteract that treatment, but he doesn’t use any delicacy and throws me down on the floor, in my corner of dusty blankets. He throws the sandwich at me with the same anger I had thrown it to him and, without batting an eye, pronounces his order.
“Eat, sleep and don’t bug me! You'll be home soon.”
I see him go away and when I fall asleep, it's a deep sleep.
I open my eyes and I am in my room, my mother is at my side, my father looks at me from afar. I feel far away. I came back home, but part of me didn’t come back; it stayed elsewhere.
* * *
I wake up because of the tickle I feel on my forehead. I move and now something is pricking my skin. I lift my head, open my eyes and…
Oh, no, it's Krum!
I remain motionless, because I don’t want to wake him up. I am so close to his body that I can feel the slight movements of his chest lifting; breathing. I have a thigh bent on his, my ankle wrapped around his calf, my arm around his hard bust, my head lying on his chest. His chin is caressing my forehead, tickling me with his prickly beard. One arm is embracing my back and holds my hip with his big hand, while the other arm is bent behind his head. His shirt is unbuttoned and I can see his muscular and smooth chest. Who knows why I thought he was tattooed, but instead, he is a perfect and perfumed skin canvas.
How the hell did he end up on my bed and how could I allow him to stay so close? Before pushing him out, I try to collect my thoughts and begin to remember.
The nightmare. Desperation. My requests for help. Me screaming his name.
Krum.
I haven’t dreamt that scene for years. I rarely have, I was told that my brain had automatically ejected that memory, making others come out, more important for me. I've always considered absurd that this scene wasn’t so impressed in my nights and, instead, Krum was. But it was good in all these years not having to experience that awful moment again, until tonight, when I relived intensely every moment. The only difference was that I knew who to ask for help and I was sure I would be saved.
Krum was with me. My unconscious knew it and looked for him, to have that protection I’ve really never forgotten.
Now I remember the way I searched for his arms, the relief I felt clinging to him, knowing him close by, present, for me. His warm body was my oasis of salvation and then… My God, then I spent the quietest night in my whole life. I haven’t slept so well for seven years. Apparently, it seems to be the same for Krum, who just can’t wake up.
I begin to evaluate a series of options: I can push him away and enjoy seeing him fall down on the floor or I can shake him so heavily to make him jump or I can scream angrily or I can insult him or I can punch him while asleep or I can softly get up and find something to hit him with. I can do many things, but I do nothing.
I extend my finger and put it on his chin. His lips are sulky and he’s very nice. I pull myself up a bit and start studying his face, I usually stop on his eyes and I never have the strength to look at him with such care as I can do now.
He's the most charming man I've ever seen.
My fingers run along his jaw where the beard looks too long, but I like it. It makes him seem rough and wild, exactly as he is.
My index finger climbs up and goes round his fleshy lips, opened and emitting placid sighs. They are very soft and smooth. I also set my middle finger and my thumb on them and my exploration becomes a caress. I soon forget that he is Krum.
“Are you done?” he says.
Oh, no!
I immediately pull my hand back fleeing from the embarrassment. My heart is trying to abandon my chest. It’s really hot. I try to get up, but his hand keeps holding my side, the other traps me.
He keeps his eyes closed, but has a disturbing smile on his face. Should I say something? I guess not. The embarrassment is at extreme levels.
“Keep doing what you were doing.”
“Umh… I wasn’t doing anything.” I can try to make him seem crazy. Maybe I can convince him that he was dreaming.
He pulls my wrist with no delicacy. His touch is always tough and extreme. He puts my hand on his face and urges me to rub it while he still keeps his eyes closed. He has beautiful eyelashes.
“Come on, stop it!” I let a smile come out, he can’t see it.
“Go on,” his voice is tough, “doing,” he grasps my wrist, “what you were doing.”
“Okay.”
He loosens the grip on my wrist and I keep caressing him, as before, but now that I know he is awake, I know he feels me; I know we are sharing something intimate.
He sighs, it's like I'm torturing him in a positive way. I don’t want to give him any satisfaction, so I begin to instigate him, so that he understands my intentions were others.
I invent a stupid excuse and say: “I just wanted to feel if your beard was rough or soft.”
He opens only one eye, looks at me as if he wanted to say "seriously?" . I nod, now I know we can communicate even without talking.
“How is it?” he asks, finally opening his eyes.
“Soft.”
He traps my hand against his face. I feel the heat of his palm and his beard tickles me. He fixes my eyes on his He looks like he has fallen asleep again, but with his eyes open.
“Are you okay?” he whispers. I know what he's talking about. He believes I am still in the hands of my nightmare. It would have been this way if he hadn’t stayed with me. Oh, but, what am I saying!
“Yes I'm fine.”
He pulls my hand away and puts it on his chest. My palm vibrates shaken by the beats of his heart.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks.
I can’t believe we are having a normal conversation, on a bed, hugging. Something tells me that once we leave this little space of ours, he’ll only be Krum again.
“Yes, after the nightmare, I slept well,” I say a bit embarrassed.
I am looking down, but his hot fingers are on my chin and they pull it up. He doesn’t want me to break the visual contact. Usually, physically he is really cold, but today he is much warmer than other times. His body temperature has changed dramatically.
“I slept,” he says. “After so long I finally slept well.”
“Do you have nightmares too?”
“Yes, often.”
“And tonight, you didn't have them?”
“No. I was busy controlling yours. I had to be there.”
“And you were.”
We remain silent for a while. We look at each other; study each other; we listen to that silence that is no longer silence, but full of something. We are able to dominate silence only by being present and close.
It’s a wonderful, scary and surreal feeling.
“You know what I was dreaming.” Mine is not a question, but a statement. He nods. “I'm sure you enjoy being in my nightmares.” I never waste time to remind him that he is part of everything.
“I like it, yes. Because I know I'm there for you, ready to protect you.”
His answer surprises me and it feels like a caress in my soul. I thought he would be proud to be my inner illness, but he is confessing he wants to be there for me in a different way.
“You don’t always protect me in my dreams.” I put an elbow on the pillow and he loosens his grip, as if he wanted to communicate a sudden discomfort. He frowns, his forehead takes on a worried charming expression.
“What do I do?”
“What a curious guy!” I have no intention of revealing my dreams to the one who masters them.
“Confess!” He gives me a pinch on my side and I shout, but it's a delighted squeal. “Tell me what you dream; tell me how you see me; what do I do to you?”
“W-what do you do to me?”
I am deeply embarrassed. Why is it so hot? And why did his voice suddenly become music for my ears?
“Yes, tell me what I do to you,” he continues mischievously. I hate him because he's causing a big hole in my stomach. “Tell me what you want.”
“Do you want to know what I dream or what I want?”
“Does it make difference?”
No, in his case, there was no difference.
“Well, you…” I look down, but he, as usual, wants to see my face and demands it.
“Show me your eyes, Ambra.”
His request strikes me in my chest, it’s a necessity I want to satisfy. I grant him my eyes because I realize that I also want his.
“You said my name,” I tell him.
“So?”
“You said you didn’t want me on your lips.”
“I was lying.”
“Why?”
“Because actually, I’d like to have you everywhere.” I’m struck by this confession and I blink my eyes in disbelief. “Why does it bother you to know this?” He's so extraordinarily relaxed. He puts a bent arm under his head while, with the other hand, he traces lines and circles on my back. I am resting on an elbow and look at him, unable to look away.
“Maybe I’m repetitive, but really, I don’t understand you. You say you hate me, you treat me badly and then you want me to be everywhere.”
“I don’t hate you, I don’t hurt you and yes, I want you everywhere.”
“Oh,” I swallow. I'm shivering. He is a strategist able to provoke strange pulsations in my body. I don’t know if it disturbs or excites me. Maybe I already know the answer, but it's better avoiding to admit it.
“So, what do you dream?”
“I'll tell you what I dream if you tell me your nightmares.”
“It's out of the question!” His tone is hard, I'm afraid I've swept away the sweet version of Krum.
“Why?”
He brings his fingers to my lips, and for the first time, I don’t pull back in front of his intention to touch me. He snatches my lips between his thumb and index finger and gives me a pinch that goes down my whole body, leading to a point that is burning hot.
Consequently, I open my mouth and his fingers slide inside; I grit my teeth and bite his index, while his eyes remain fixed on the scene and my mind has gone too far.
“Stop it, or I won’t let you leave this bed.” He takes his fingers out of my mouth and I vent. His tone is so threatening, it contains promises I would like him to keep. “Now tell me what you dream!”
“That you look at me, that you control me, that you pull my hair, grab my wrists…”
“And?”
“And… nothing.”
“Is my face covered?”
“You've always had a balaclava in my dreams, but not tonight.”
“Then, what happens?” His smart look doesn’t hide his thoughts. I’ll never tell him what happens next.
“Nothing happens,” I say embarrassed.
“Tell me what happens, or I'm telling you.”
Oh, God. I open my lips out of amazement. I am hotter than before; I'm burning up. Something builds up in me and sends fluid deep down .
“Tell me!” I say boldly. “What do you think happens next?”
He pulls his elbows up; his tapered white shirt adheres to his contracting muscles. He pulls himself up even higher and grabs my wrists.
I. Am. Going. Into. Apnea.
He stretches me out under him and pushes my wrists to the sides of my head. I let him do everything because he is marvelously wonderful.
He is over me, but he doesn’t touch my body, he remains at a precautionary distance. My eyes run down his uncovered chest and then gaze at the swollen part of his pants, right there.
“Then?” I pant. “Tell me what happens in my dreams.”
“I look at you,” he lowers his head to my face. “I control you,” his hands tighten more and more. “I pull your hair,” now the grip lets up and he caresses my hands, entwining my fingers and his. “I trap your wrists, but then I seek your hands. I bang you against the wall.”
Oh. My God.
“I lift you up, you pull up your legs and interweave them behind my back…”
I'm in flames.
"I lean on you and you can feel how much I want you, I show you what I can give you…”
As he says these hot words, he rests on me and turns to my head as if he is sucking up every vital scrap.
“Go on!” I say.
He presses vigorously on me and I spread my legs to help the rubbing.
“My hands touch you everywhere,” he whispers, but he leaves them intertwined with mine, lowering only his hips on me. I could experience the utmost pleasure just by feeling him so close and hard. “My lips touch your neck…” he really acts out the vision and sets his mouth on my neck.
I'm quivering, I'm as excited as I've never been, he’s driving me crazy.
“Krum!”
“Da, printsesa moya.”
Hearing him speaking Bulgarian fuels that fire that has already exploded inside me.
“Come on, Krum!” I’d like him to put his lips on my skin and stop being just a light feather.
He rubs again, rubbing a spot that causes a tormented groan.
He leaves my hands and traps my face. His thumbs are so delicate that they seem to be two feathers. Now that I have my hands free, they are looking for his hair. I follow his movement and the pressure leads me to the limit, up and down, stroke by stroke, perverse caresses of the intimacy of surreal perfection. I'm about to climax. I'm going to erupt down there.
“And then,” he continues on my lips. “I put a hand on your neck, I tighten up and tell you that you deserve nothing.”
I stop. His lips stop on mine and he growls: “I haven’t forgotten the horrible things you told me. You won’t enjoy pleasure until you deserve it!”
He clutches my jaw, bites my lips, hard, terribly hard, pushes with another decisive thrust and he gets up.
He gets up!
What a bastard!
I remain lying on the bed, unable to react from the suffered humiliation. I am not brave enough to look at him and I try to get my stolen breath back, forgetting about the shame I feel having accepted his attention.
I pull myself up, get out of bed and I can't resist to insulting him. But I stop, I don’t want to give him any satisfaction, but when I see his satisfied smile, that cruel and triumphant look, I cannot hold back and furiously, but without shouting, I tell him: “Never dare to touch me again. I confirm all the horrible things I have told you and I regret my behavior that was, undoubtedly inappropriate and…”
“Blah, blah, blah…”
Is he teasing me?
I open my mouth indignantly; I can’t replicate. I can’t find horrible words to describe him anymore. I still feel so invaded by that unsatisfied discharge of desire to the point that my legs are giving in. I have a knot in my stomach that doesn’t want to go away.
“You're disgusting! I needed to relax, I was fine and you ruined everything as usual,” this time I yell. “I hate you, Krum. I hate you!”
“Go take a shower and be ready in half an hour.”
It's amazing. He's so icy that I almost see stalactites coming down from the ceiling.
“I won’t come with you anywhere, unless you want to be insulted all day long.”
“I'll take the risk,” He unrolls his shirt sleeves and buttons the cuffs. He takes his jacket and wears it. It’s humiliating to recognize that he’s so sexy that he makes me sick.
He walks slowly towards me, but this time I don’t step back. I lift my chin, I don’t take my eyes off of him and he… he…
He takes my head and kisses me.