Page 29 of Delivered to the Devil

“I haven’t ordered any food,” I call out. He probably thinks I’m some paranoid recluse, but I don’t care.

He reads my name and address from a piece of paper and adds, “On behalf of Istvan Gabor.”

“I haven’t ordered anything,” I repeat.

“I’ve been instructed to leave the food outside your door if you don’t open, so I’ll just place the bag here.”

He disappears from view as he bows down to place the bag, then leaves. I wait several minutes, alternating between pressing my ear to the door and my eye to the peephole.

When I’m sure he’s gone, I rip the door open, snatch the bag, and slam the door shut. With trembling hands, I turn the lock and secure the chain, then fall back against the door, panting.

I slide down to the floor with the white plastic bag in my arms. Almost expecting to find a bomb, I carefully peel it open and peer into it. There’s no bomb. Just food—a plastic container that emits a warm scent of spices, a brown paper bag with bread, and a card with a teddy hugging a heart.

With a frown, I open the card to find two words in neat, cursive penmanship at the exact center of the paper.

Eat up!

I fling the card aside like it’s poison and study the rest of the contents with suspicion. I’m not sure why Gabor would want to poison me, but I wouldn’t put it past him.

Maybe I should throw out the food. I don’t see how he would find out.

Peering into the bag again, I notice a white styrofoam box tucked into the corner. Carefully, I open the lid, and a smile twitches at the sides of my mouth when I see the contents. It’s a Ben & Jerry’s mini cup with caramel and chocolate. The same flavor Janos fed me this morning.

The card may have Gabor’s twisted brand of sweetness written all over it, but it’s not from him. Not really. He has just signed the card and delivered the order.

This is from Janos. He has spent time here at my place, waiting for me, feeding me, taking care of me. He’s been watching me at the restaurant and God knows in what other ways. He’s the one who knows I’m so afraid of my own shadow I don’t dare open the door for a simple delivery guy, and he’s the one who’d know I used to stock my freezer with this exact flavor before I spent all my money on useless safety precautions.

I’m not sure what the ice cream means, but I know it means something. A reminder of our shared moment of intimacy? A way of telling me the food is from him—to reassure me it’s safe to eat?

I shake my head at the thought. It’s ridiculous. Knowing it’s from him shouldn’t reassure me. And why would he want to reassure me in the first place?

It doesn’t make sense, but as I keep staring at the small container, I become more and more convinced that I’m right. This is meant as reassurance.

Emotions swirl inside me. A strange mix of fear, confusion, and… desire. Impulse has me slipping off the lid and grabbing the spoon in the bag.

Within a few minutes, the cup is empty. Then I open the plastic container to find steaming hot Goulash soup, which I consume with equal gusto.

Half an hour later, when I’m headed for work, I actually feel somewhat okay. It shouldn’t be possible, and I hate myself a little for it. But instead of fighting it and making myself feel miserable, I decide to keep my focus on work. It’s monotonous and dull, but these days, I find a certain calmness in walking around in my own world, going about these mindless tasks. Especially now that Izsák has stopped harassing me and barely speaks to me—I suspect the beating he received was also a present from Janos.

Work has become my safe space. Here, with the view of the water and the castle, I’m able to keep the violent images at bay. Here, I don’t hear the echo of my own screams or remember the devastating feeling of fighting with everything I have to no avail.

***

In the following days, Janos pays me a visit each morning. He usually comes before the sun has cast its first rays. He’ll saunter through my apartment so soundlessly that I sometimes don’t even wake, and then he’ll sit in my armchair, watching me like a hawk until the sun filters brightly through the curtains.

Some days, I’m barely sentient when he ties ropes around my ankles and wrists, spreading me out in an X. But it doesn’t seem to matter to him. He doesn’t need me awake to go to work on my ass, stretching my narrow hole slowly and inexorably.

I realize this must be what Gabor meant about Janos training me because the butt plugs slowly get bigger, and I’m all too aware of where this will end.

Some days, I can’t muster the will to resist, but other days, I need the struggle like I need air—to feel that this is not my own choice.

Instead of subduing me immediately, Janos will trap me in his arms and let me kick and scream for quite a while before throwing me onto the mattress and pinning me with a knee on my back. At first, I think he allows me to fight because he feeds on my helplessness. I often feel the hard bulge of his cock straining against my back. But one day, I realize there’s more to it.

“Get it all out,” he rasps into my ear when I deflate after a few minutes of struggling. When I only whimper, he gives me a good shake. “In a moment, I’ll have my finger inside your tight little ass, preparing you to become a good little ass slut.”

He’s provoking me. And it works. I start struggling again with even more force, screaming into his massive palm until my throat feels like sandpaper. When I wrest an arm free and scratch him, he throws me onto my stomach, trapping my arms beneath me and pinning me with his weight.

“I hate you,” I whimper as I jerk feebly. “I hate you so fucking much.”

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