Page 9 of Obsessive Stalker

“Don’t push me,” I reply, the smile leaving my face. “Or you’ll only make your punishment worse. I’d hate to hurt you. How do you think your father would feel, knowing his daughter is in danger?”

“I told you before,” Kristen spits. “I don’t care what he thinks. I hate the man.”

“My darling, how could you think we don’t belong together when we have so much in common?” I ask, my lip curling.

4

Kristen

My body istense as Damien loads me into the back of the large SUV, black with blacked out windows to hide the occupants inside. I’m afraid of what he’ll do once he joins me in the seat next to mine, his promise of punishment still ringing in my ears.

But instead of reaching for me to do whatever it is that he has planned, he ignores me.

The car pulls away from the road, the driver obscured by a partition between our seat and his. The interior of the car seems totally customized, minor details of understated luxury and added functionality. The partition is just one example but there are others.

There are also more sinister features of the vehicle, like the straps that wrap over my hips and chest, holding me tightly to the seat.

I shift in the seat and Damien’s eyes flicker to me.

“Promise to behave, and I’ll remove the handcuffs,” he says, gesturing to the silver cuffs that glint at my wrists.

“Fuck you,” I seethe.

He chuckles, turning away, his attention on the phone in his hands. He’s typing rapidly, shooting text message after text message to various recipients. I try to get an angle to view the screen, but it’s impossible. He tilts the screen away from me, finishing his last message before pocketing the little black phone.

My own phone, with the pink case and cracks in the glass screen, was left behind at the house in Tahoe. But not before one of Damien’s men programmed it so that it would send routine text messages to a handful of my top contacts, with Damien’s phone able to send additional text messages so that they appear to be coming from me.

Nobody will notice I’m missing for a least a week at this, assuming that my mom returns next Friday for our usual hamburger and interrogation date.

It’s a thought that makes me sad and fearful. We drive past the luxurious homes in the wooded neighborhood. Lights are on in the windows, people having dinner or watching movies with loved ones without any idea that I’m out here, being abducted and taken away against my will by a man who simultaneously infuriates me and turns me on.

After he pockets the phone and continues to gaze out the window, ignoring me, I can’t take the silence anymore.

“Where are we going?”

“My home, of course,” he says, turning to me. “Where else does a wife belong but with her husband?”

“You’re not my husband,” I say. “Good luck marrying me. I’ll say those vows to you when hell freezes over.”

“Sweetheart, it’s endearing that you think I need you to say the words,” he says, his eyes glittering in the dark interior of the car. “I could have us married tomorrow if I wanted.”

I feel his hand on my thigh, sliding upward until it dips beneath my shorts, reaching the apex of my thighs. I regret donning this pajama set tonight, so thin and practically transparent, without a bra or underwear beneath. It makes it that much easier for him to tease me, to touch me where I know I shouldn’t enjoy it or want it but very much do.

“You’re still wet for me,” he says with approval. “Soaked. My little slut.”

“Don’t call me that,” I snap.

“A slut?” he asks.

“I’m not a slut,” I say. “It’s a misogynistic word and besides, I don’t sleep around with a bunch of guys. In fact, I’ve never even -”

“Being a virgin doesn’t preclude you from being a slut,” he says, pushing a finger inside of me. “And I didn’t say you were just any slut. I said you were mine. Like it or not, this is the way your body responds to me, the way it’s always responded. You think I didn’t know? That first day, when we met? I knew. You can’t hide it from me, and furthermore, I don’t want you to.”

“I don’t…”

I can’t finish the sentence, can’t continue to fight this fight with him, because his finger begins to thrust in and out of me, pushing against a spot deep within me that makes my whole body light up with pleasure and need.

“Don’t,” he warns me, his voice rough and in my ear. “Don’t lie to me. Not about this.”

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