Page 15 of Blue Velvet

“Yes,” I hurry to say. “Yes. I understand.”

But I don’t. I really don’t understand.

9

Ruby

I’m mad at him.I’m mad at him for not appreciating the effort I’ve shown to impress him. I’m mad at him for being this way, for leaving me in the dark about his plans and his ideas about how this is supposed to go down. How am I supposed to please him if he doesn’t tell me what to do? So far, he seems nothing but displeased with me, and I have no idea why.

Well, that’s not exactly true. I have a vague suspicion that he’s not happy with my acting. I’m not scared enough, not desperate enough. He finds fault with my lack of struggle, my lack of screaming and crying, and even when he found me this morning, a pathetic pile of misery with dried-up tears crusting my eyes, a silent plea on my lips, even then he wasn’t happy.

This night was horrible. I hate the dark, always have. But I recovered from it just as quickly as I tend to recover from all the mistreatments I’ve endured throughout my life. I’m a fighter. I bounce back quickly and come out on the other side a stronger person. I’ve always been that way; I’ve had to.

But I can tell that he wants me weak, scared, and broken, losing my mind in a furious fit while pointlessly lashing out at him.

That’s just not who I am, and I don’t have the acting skills to pretend I’m that kind of person.

After he wrapped me up in that gigantic towel, the gentle treatment abruptly came to an end. He led me out of the bathroom, and as he pushed me forward, I feared that I’d end up on that damn bench again. There was no other surface to lay on, which is probably why he placed me there while I was still unconscious.

But he’s not pushing me toward the stretching bench again. Instead, we’re heading toward an open area in front of a St. Andrew’s Cross that’s nailed to the wall.

“Down, on your knees,” he commands, and I comply immediately, like the good slave I know I can be.

I tilt my head back into my neck, my gaze searching his for approval.

“Spread your thighs, palms on your knees,” he orders, and I follow suit. This is a common slave position, and I’ve been asked to present myself like this before. The towel that’s been wrapped around my body falls down as I spread my legs, but I don’t bother picking it up.

He pauses for a few moments, observing as I present myself in the way he asked. Then, he drops down on his knees in front of me, coming almost to eye-level with me.

I withstand his strong gaze, almost proud of my endurance. His look is intense, especially coming from a man as handsome as he is. No client has ever turned my insides the way he does, and no one has ever confused me this much, on so many levels.

And as it turns out, he’s only going to make it worse.

“Who the hell are you?” he asks, catching me off guard with that unexpected question.

Do I have to come up with some elaborate background story about the character I’m playing? If so, why was I never instructed about this?

“What do you mean?” I ask.

He groans, knitting his eyebrows once again.

“Well, my name is-”

“I don’t need your fuckingname,” he interrupts. “Your name is ‘toy’ while you’re with me. That’s all I need. Do you understand?”

I nod, boiling with anger inside.

“Yes, I understand,” I respond. “And what am I to callyou? Since you don’t like Sir...”

“Master,” he says. “You’ll call me ‘master’.”

I nod again. “Yes, master.”

His next question baffles me even more.

“Are you a whore?”

I gasp. Why the hell would he ask that? He knows that I am, even though I despise the word.

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