Page 61 of Wicked Games

Piece by piece.

Kiss by kiss.

Punishment by punishment.

He has taken away Lizzie Larkin and replaced her with Lady Elizabeth, ward to the Duke of Winterbourne.

I had seen a documentary once on Patty Hearst and Stockholm syndrome. They said it was the mind’s way of coping with an ongoing traumatic experience. Having your mind escape into a place of acceptance was actually a survival mechanism. Without it, your mind was in danger of just snapping from the relentless stress and pressure.

Was that what happened to me?

I kept turning over in my mind the constant cycle of punishment and pleasure that I had been subjected to these past few weeks. Being strapped into that chair each morning. Having him whip my breasts with that leather belt till I begged for him to just fuck me instead. The taste of his cock. The feel of his tongue on my cunt. The hedonistic fucked-up nature of what we were doing. And the entire time, while he was driving his cock into my body, he was driving the idea into my mind that my real life was just a dream, the hysterical illusion of a fractured mind.

I guessed these things never happened quickly. It took a special kind of finesse and patience to slowly strip a person of their entire identity. One day it was the kiss of his leather belt that took away a piece. Another day it was his cock pounding in my ass while I was bent over a pile of cushions in the conservatory. Still another it was a stroke of his hand down my cheek. Or the quiet evenings before the fire with him reading and me drawing dress designs. It was in the extravagant dinners. The beautiful gowns and jewelry. The afternoons spent learning how to waltz with just him and me in that large ballroom.

This was dangerous. I should be focusing on the numerous instructions I received at his hands. The humiliations and degradations. Not the times it felt like I was living inside an Edith Wharton novel. Sure, it was still the best sex of my life. Sure, it was weird to know I had a kinky side that apparently relished pain with my pleasure but that wasn’t the point!

He’d used me.

Tricked me.

He’d actually made me love him!

If I were honest with myself, I mean really truly brutally honest… I think that pissed me off more than this whole fucked-up scheme of his.

Saying it was Stockholm syndrome was just a cop-out. I had to face the truth. I had let this happen. I never would have believed the lie if deep down I didn’t want it to be true. If it weren’t for the kidnapping, drugs, and rough sex, it would also be the perfect fairy tale.

Rich, powerful lord swept a woman off her feet and spirited her away to a fantasy world where his only focus was her. Each day she was lavished with gifts of silks and jewels. She was no longer expected to work but rather to idle her days away dreaming and drawing. All of her wants and needs taken care of, from delicious meals to a household of servants to do her bidding.

The only catch was she had to be okay with being face fucked at his pleasure and taking it up the ass occasionally.

Okay, so it was an extremely dark and twisted, fucked-up fairy tale but there was something fascinating in a horribly messed-up way about a man so obsessed with you that he would go to these great lengths to have you. Not to mention the undeniable turn-on of a man just taking what he wants. A girl just didn’t get pushed up against a wall and just plain fucked anymore in the modern era.

Wait.

In that twisted, rambling, rage vent in my head, did I actually say I loved the bastard?

No.

I didn’t.

Absolutely not.

He was a fucking psychopath! Domineering. Arrogant. Obsessive to say the least. What kind of life could I possibly have with a man like that?

This one… my traitorous heart whispered.

My inner mind recoiled from the idea. Perhaps I shouldn’t dismiss Stockholm syndrome too quickly. Obviously, this whole thing had screwed with my head and made me believe I loved a man who kidnapped me for his own sexual pleasure.

And what about all the servants? They were all people I knew from the theater… people I thought were my friends. Even Jane, my own best friend and flatmate, was in on the scheme.

At least, I was assuming they were all in on it.

What could they possibly have thought otherwise?

That I actually wanted to be here?

Again, my stupid heart whispered, that’s what it looked like to an outsider during all those romantic dinners and ballroom lessons.

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