Page 51 of Blue Velvet

Could we ever be a normal couple? Probably not, considering how we met. But would I even want that?

Normal. I’ve never known normal, and it has never been me.

He has feelings for me, feelings that are stronger than they should be between a master and his slave. He doesn’t have to say it for me to know.

He’s not ready to admit it, nor is he ready to hear that I’m right there with him.

He’s not ready to hear that I’m ready to forgive him.

This is where we’re at. We’ve spent three weeks together, so close to each other that it would wreck most couples, even those that have known each other for years, and we’ve only grown stronger.

He still locks me up every time he leaves the house. He only leaves occasionally, always returning with groceries and something nice for me, something to wear, something to pretty myself. I thanked him profusely when he gave me my make-up back. As silly as it may sound, I really missed having it.

“It’s a part of you,” he said when he gave it back to me. “A side of you that I haven’t seen in a while, so maybe it’s time to refresh my memory.”

He always does that. Every time he does something nice for me, he phrases it as if he’s doing it for himself.

I still don’t know what he does for a living, but it sure doesn’t seem to be an average nine-to-five, five-days a week job. He often works from home, too, which ends up being the perfect time to dole out any punishments I’m due. Once I was locked downstairs spread-eagle on the St. Andrew’s Cross, with a vibrating plug stuck up my ass, agonizing over the agitative pulsations that never quite took me over the edge. He watched me for a while, but then he left the room and only returned when he was done working.

He’s out again right now. I don’t know where he went, but I heard him drive off a while ago. When I saw him for a few minutes this morning, he seemed stressed, absent, so much so that he forget to cuff my ankles together when he brought me upstairs for breakfast. I didn’t point it out to him, just like I don’t mention a lot of things these days. It’s as if I’ve put myself on hold, waiting for something to happen, for something that will break us free from this routine.

But I don’t know what that is.

The only possibility that comes to mind is if there’s a search underway to find me. I haven’t had access to the news for almost three weeks now, so I don’t know if I’ve been reported missing. My client must have reported that I was missing to the agency by now, right? The agency must have tried to contact me, and when I didn’t respond or show up, they must have started looking for me, right?

Theymustbe looking for me.

A wave of cold terror tingles down my spine every time I consider the possibility that my family might have been contacted about my disappearance. My sister is the only one who knows that I’ve been working this job since college, and she’s always been kind enough not to mention it in front of my parents. I still don’t want them to know. Not because I’m ashamed, but because I know it would only make our relationship worse than it is already. We don’t need that. It’s okay the way it is. They live their lives, I live mine. Sometimes, I decide to visit them for Christmas, sometimes I don’t, and everybody is fine with that.

They have never asked me about what I’m doing with my life. As long as I’m alive and able to pay my own bills, they’re fine. Knowing that I willingly sell my body, despite insisting on getting a college education even after they ridiculed the idea all my life, would only infuriate them beyond belief. Maybe it would even make them laugh. Maybe it would only give them more reasons to spite me and make fun of me.

I don’t want them to know.

But if there’s an ongoing search for me, which there must be by now, then it’s safe to assume that they know all about my life by now. I can’t shake the feeling that this is another reason for me to accept the current situation that I’m in. As long as I’m here being held as his captive, I won’t have to face the world outside. I don’t have to face my family. I don’t have to worry about anything other than pleasing him - and receiving pleasure in return.

And damn it, he’s good at that. He has me wrapped around his finger, bending at his will with a smile on my face.

He has his own ways of showing his affection to me, ways that may be weird to others, but are heavy with meaning for those, like me, who have an understanding of this lifestyle. My heart almost burst out of my chest when he closed a collar around my neck a few days ago. It’s not a permanent collar, and I could take it off at any time if I wanted to, but I don’t and I don’t want to. It’s symbolic that I’m his possession, and I treasure it, feeling desired and scared at the same time.

There’s a leash attached to the collar, one that he uses to guide me, choke me, and sometimes just to pull me in closer for a kiss. He wants to see it on me every time he walks into the room, and he wants me to hold up the leash, presenting it to him using both hands as a gesture of handing over control to him.

I feel even closer to him now, but I still don’t know his name. In my head, I sometimes call him J, because I’ve been told that it was the first letter of my client’s name. I know it’s nothisname, but it’s the only thing I have - next to referring to him as my master. That’s what he is to me, my master, but I don’t feel this title really entails who he is and who we are together.

I’ve been standing at the window like a dog waiting for its owner to return. I have to stand on my tiptoes and stretch as far as possible to see outside the tiny windows. The frosted glass makes it impossible to see anything clearly. I can only perceive movement and shadows, but the driveway is close enough that I’m able to hear every time he leaves and returns to the house. He always comes to see me right after he comes back, and I always greet him in the way I’ve been trained. The position he wants me to greet him in hasn’t changed, and neither have many other things between us.

But I have changed, not only emotionally, but physically, too. The bleach blonde in my hair is starting to fade. It was a cheap treatment, and I should have known that it wouldn’t last the entire thirty-nine days, the original amount of time I was to spend with the client who wanted a blonde. My dark red natural-colored roots are starting to show more every single day. As my hair claims back its natural state back, I feel more like myself every time I look in the mirror.

He has noticed it, too. There was a warm smile on his face the first time he pointed it out to me.

“I was looking forward to this,” he said, curling a strand of hair around one of his fingers. “To see what you really look like.”

I’m flattered that he likes my red hair because I’ve always considered it an essential part of me. I used to hate it, because it’s one of those things that people constantly point out to you, and kids have a tendency to make fun of it. But the older I got, the more I started to like it. The fact that he likes it, too, feels almost feels like an admission of love for who I really, truly am. But it’s an admission I know he’s not ready to make officially.

My heart jumps when I hear his car rolling up on the driveway, and a broad smile appears on my face. I can hear the door closing. I can hear his steps coming toward the house, I can hear him unlocking the door, I can hear him enter, the door closing, and then his steps fading until he makes his way down to the basement.

I move away from the window once he’s inside the house to get ready to present myself to him when he comes downstairs. The time between him closing the door and his steps sounding on the stairs that lead down to the basement varies, but it never takes too long.

Today, the wait is longer. I can’t hear him moving around in the house, but after a while, something else draws my attention.

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