Page 24 of Perilous

When I close my eyes I picture the others… masks and robes, standing over me. Making comments about me. Wanting to fuck me.

I think about Molly. I wonder if she realizes by now I’m in some hot water. Then again, knowing Molly, she probably went home with one or ten guys and partied all night into the morning. It’ll take her at least another day or two to realize I’m missing.

Thanks for that, best friend!

Not to mention this entire thing is Molly’s fault.

“No, it’s not,” I whisper out loud, just to hear my voice. Just to hear some kind of noise.

This room is cozy but the reality behind it is far from cozy. The bed is nice and comfortable. The walls are painted a warm gray color. Inviting and relaxing with random pieces of artwork on the walls. Abstract stuff. The kind of painting you can look at for hours and never see the same thing twice.

There are no windows in this room. It’s creepy. Scary. The exact kind of room you’d think someone kidnapped would be held captive in.

The door finally opens and he walks in. I don’t know why but I jump off the bed and to my feet. As though I’m greeting him.

Ew, Annika, what the fuck?

He freezes and shuts the door. Then locks it.

“Did I interrupt something?”

“What?” I ask.

“You’re blushing a little, doll. Were you fingering yourself?”

I scoff, blushing even harder.

“It’s fine by me,” he says. “Ask for permission next time or else you’ll get a belt to your ass.”

I gasp. “Excuse me? What I do when I’m alone is not any of your—”

He flies across the bedroom and has his hand over my mouth before I can finish my statement. His fingers digging so hard against my cheeks, my teeth cut the insides of my mouth.

I whimper. But I don’t fight back. I could fight back.

But. I. Don’t.

“Let me explain something to you, doll,” he growls at me. “I own your sweet, soft cunt. Got it? And what I say… goes.”

I taste blood in my mouth. My eyes water.

“Next time you want to touch yourself, you ask for permission. Do you understand me?”

I nod. My knees tremble, threatening to give out. I’ve never been treated like this before. Anything sexual in my life has always been as plain as vanilla ice cream. And there is nothing wrong with vanilla ice cream at all.

But this guy… he’s like… he’s a freshly baked slice of apple pie with vanilla ice cream scooped on top with freshly grated cinnamon on top.

Doused in whiskey and ready to kill me too.

Apple pie with cyanide in it. And yet I can’t help but secretly want to eat it.

“Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” I say. He releases his hold on my mouth. I touch my jaw. “I wasn’t touching myself. My pants aren’t even undone or anything.”

“She’s got a mouth on her,” he grumbles to himself.

He grabs my wrists and lifts my hands toward his face. Next thing I know he’s smelling my fingers. Disgust attempts to flood my body but it’s overrun by something totally opposite.

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