“I told you, online courses. There’s a massage therapy school in Switzerland that offers intensive video training programs.” His hands move to my lower back, finding muscle groups I didn’t know could be sore. “I also studied anatomy and physiology textbooks. I wanted to understand how your body works, what you need to stay healthy and strong.”
The thoroughness of his preparation should disturb me, but instead I find myself impressed by his dedication.
This is what it feels like to be pampered, I realize with something approaching wonder. To be the focus of someone’s complete attention and devoted care. When was the last time anyone touched me like this? Not sexually, though there’s certainly an undercurrent of intimacy in Ginni’s hands on myskin, but simply to make me feel good. To ease discomfort and provide comfort with no expectation of anything in return.
My mother used to rub my back when I was sick as a child, but that was decades ago. Since then, touch has mostly been functional. Medical exams, the occasional massage at upscale clubs that was more about status than actual therapy, sexual encounters that were about release rather than connection.
This is different. This is someone studying my needs with scientific precision and then meeting them with generous devotion.
“Your gluteal muscles are very tight,” Ginni observes, his hands moving to my ass with clinical professionalism. “All that sitting and driving. We’ll need to work on your hip flexors too.”
I could get used to this. The thought hits me with unexpected force, and not just the physical pleasure of the massage. I could get used to having someone who adores me, who studies my needs and preferences with scientific dedication, who wants nothing more than to make me feel special and cared for.
Someone who notices when I’m tense before I do. Who remembers exactly how I like my coffee and what foods I prefer. Who goes to extraordinary lengths to ensure my comfort and happiness.
My mind drifts to what happened earlier, the way Ginni had surrendered himself so completely to my guidance. The trust in his eyes, the way he’d followed my lead with such beautiful submission, the grateful pleasure on his face when I took control.
He’d been so responsive, so eager to please, so ready to give me everything I asked for and more. Like he’d been waiting his entire life for someone to claim him, to show him what it meant to be desired and treasured and thoroughly possessed.
And the sounds he’d made... Cristo, the memory alone is enough to make me hard again.
“You’re thinking about earlier,” Ginni observes with obvious satisfaction, his hands now working on my calves and thighs with methodical precision. “I can tell by the way your breathing changed. And your pulse rate increased.”
Heat floods my face, though he can’t see it with me lying face-down. “How can you possibly know that?”
“Because I pay attention to everything about you,” he replies simply, his hands working the oil into my legs with possessive thoroughness. “Your breathing patterns, your heart rate, the way your muscles respond to different stimuli, how your body language changes with different emotions. I’ve been studying you for years, remember? I know you better than you know yourself in some ways.”
It should be unsettling, this level of observation and analysis. But instead, it’s oddly comforting. To be so thoroughly known, so completely understood, even in ways I don’t understand myself.
I let myself sink into the sensation, floating in a haze of complete relaxation. The artificial starlight from the projector, the scent of expensive oils, the skilled hands working away tension I didn’t know I was holding.
Being abducted is turning out to be a much better experience than I anticipated.
The thought should horrify me, but I’m too relaxed to care. Too comfortable, too well-cared for, too thoroughly seduced by this beautiful boy’s devoted attention.
Maybe this is what Stockholm syndrome feels like. Or maybe it’s just what happens when someone loves you with the kind of obsessive intensity that Ginni brings to everything he does.
Either way, I’m not sure I want it to stop.
Iwake to the sound of whimpering, soft and distressed in the artificial darkness of the basement. For a moment, I’m disoriented, unsure what roused me from the deep, dreamless sleep that’s become my norm since Ginni started his devoted care routine.
Then I feel the movement against my shoulder, small tremors running through the body curled against me. Ginni is using my chest as a pillow, just as he has every night since my abduction began, but something’s wrong.
Another whimper escapes him, followed by a soft, broken sound that might be a sob. His breathing is rapid and shallow, panic breathing.
At first, I think he might be having some kind of erotic dream, reliving our afternoon activities. But as I listen more carefully, the sounds aren’t pleasure. They’re fear. Pain.
He’s having a nightmare.
Guilt crashes over me like ice water, sudden and overwhelming. Did I push him too far earlier? He was inexperienced when this all started, a virgin despite his seductive confidence and apparent knowledge. What if I was too demanding, too rough? What if I hurt him in ways I don’t understand, ways that are only now manifesting in his dreams?
The boy gave me his virginity on what he considers our wedding night, trusted me with something precious and irreplaceable.
What if I damaged him in my selfishness? What if in my desire for revenge, my need to soothe my humiliation, I went too far?
I carefully shift my shoulder, the movement gentle but enough to rouse him from whatever dark place his mind has gone.
He wakes with a start and a sob, immediately clinging to me with desperate strength. His whole body is trembling, and I can feel wetness against my skin where his tears have leaked ontome. He’s shaking like a leaf, small and vulnerable and utterly heartbreaking.
