Afterward he washed me, unlocked my legs, and left me on the bed, a jumble of conflicting emotions.Afterward he washed me, unlocked my legs, and left me on the bed, a jumble of conflicting emotions. He liked--in a deep psychological way--how I looked, I hate it; I wanted him to love me as much as he could be made to, maybe even at the cost I had paid, but if he was as weird as the evening's events indicated, maybe I didn't want him as much as I thought; he had opened a previously unknown (to me) dark inner closet and made himself vulnerable to me in a way that gave me power over him in an odd way (what if I told people what he did to me?). I had wanted to be closer; now I am, but closer to what? To whom? Also, I had given him something no one else would have. It will be hard for him to find anyone else that would give him what he wants, if this is any indication of what he wants. That makes me sort of special, doesn't it? Sort of? I was hungry, though, and in a few minutes I followed him into the living room, my hands still locked to my thighs. On the way I looked in the full length mirror. My hair had dried while it was pressed against my head under the hood. It was slicked straight back on my head; I looked like a sort of nordic Ratso Rizzo; in fact from the front it looked almost like I didn't have any hair at all. I couldn't do anything about it with my hands locked where they were. I wandered into the living room where he had already laid a fire. It turned out he had prepared a light microwave meal while he left me hanging from (well, not really hanging, but attached to) the bedroom ceiling. |