Has he killed before? Is he flirting with the idea of being a serial killer, or does he have a graveyard of corpses beneath our feet?
Opening the medicine cabinet, I scan the shelf for any pill bottles, any prescriptions, or signs of a diagnosis for whatever mental disorder he clearly has. I'm no shrink, so I can't even begin to guess at all the possibilities as to why he is the way he is, but some of my early guesses are manic-depressive or multiple personality disorder. Or maybe borderline? I'm not entirely sure what the difference is; I just know that at times he seems like an entirely differentperson than he was five minutes before. Like when he had me in the basement earlier... I don't understand how he went so easily from telling me in that growly voice not to fucking move and then moments later begging me to let him bring me to orgasm.
Whatever is wrong with him, though, it's either undiagnosed, unmedicated... or both.
There's nothing in his medicine cabinet beyond ibuprofen, mouthwash, and shaving cream, though I'm pretty sure he hasn't shaved himself smooth in years. I slam the door shut in frustration and rifle through the drawers, looking for anything that can give me answers about my captor, anything that can offer me some kind of insight into the man I'm sharing a bed with.
I'm just coming to the conclusion that Cal is a very boring man when I see the erection pills shoved into the very back corner of the bottom drawer, like they're something he's ashamed of. It's clear by the name what they're for, but when I lift them out to inspect them, it's also clear that he doesn't use them often. He certainly didn't take one earlier when I asked him to show me how he fucked me. The package is mostly full.
I don't know what it means, but I don't think that's going to help me in any way, so I place them back and decide that if I want answers, I'll just have to ask him for them.
What's the worst that can happen? He kills me?
The thought makes me laugh as I rejoin him in the kitchen, just as he's plating our dishes. He smiles magnanimously at me, and at that exact moment, hedoeslook like a fucking killer.
Who the hell smiles like that?
23
Cal
Watching her eat makes me want to take her downstairs and fuck her all over again. This time, I think I'll introduce her to some of the toys she doesn't remember enjoying. If she thought she enjoyed what I did to her earlier, she is woefully unequipped for how much pleasure I can bring her. And while the pasta I made her for dinner seems to be as good as sex for her, I am dying for another taste of her sweet pussy.
“What?” She asks after she slurps a string of spaghetti into her mouth, the end of it hitting the tip of her nose and splattering red sauce across her face. I laugh as she scowls and uses the back of her hand to wipe it clean. She's like a wild animal sometimes, and I can't help but find it endearing. She's such a fucking breath of fresh air after I've spent my whole life stagnating.
When I first took her to my basement, I didn't realize that she would change me, that she would... fix me? I'm not exactly the paragon of sainthood, obviously, but she seems to have quelled my murdery side with her mere existence. While I didn't intend to wake her when I did, I'm glad that it happened, because her company these last few days has been a treat.
“Nothing.” I shake my head, hoping she doesn't press me for more. When she does, I sigh and switch tack. “Didn't you want some wine?”
The glass I poured for her still sits, untouched, next to her plate. Maybe she's more of a beer drinker, or maybe she doesn't drink at all.
“No.” She says curtly. “Why? Are you trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?”
When I don't immediately answer, she smirks a little. It's a good look on her... it seems somehow more natural than the quiet, docile persona she's been embracing for the last few days.
“If I wanted to take advantage of you, little doll, I'd simply roll over you and take you in your sleep. You sleepquiteheavily.”
Her smirk slips, and for a second, I regret saying that.
But then her tongue flicks over her lips, and I watch her squirm, no doubt pressing her thighs together. So, she likes that idea, I guess.
“Have you?” She ventures, swirling the pasta around her fork before looking up to meet my gaze. “I mean, since I've beennotsedated, have you…”
“No.” I shake my head. That would be a line I don't want to cross without knowing how she'd feel about it. I'm not trying to scare the shit out of her or give her an anxiety attack. I've seen her twitching and whimpering from the nightmares... nightmares she eases from when I pull her body against mine. It's how I know she's no light sleeper... the fact she doesn't stir but settles deeper when I drag her body to mine, caging her against my chest.
If my cock poking her in the ass all night doesn't wake her, I'm not so sure slipping it inside her would either.
“Do you think it would be like... earlier?”
I assume by earlier she means when I fucked her this morning before she took a nap in my arms. I admit, I helped myself to her tits, played with them to soothe me as she slept at my side, and my back ached from the damn counter. I chose it to be sanitary before I knew this would go how it did, but I should have gone with a bed because keeping her there as often as I did wasn't fair to her. It must have been so uncomfortable.
“For me, yes.” I shrug. “For you, I don't really know. Probably.”
“Maybe we can try it sometime?”
I nearly choke on the bite of garlic bread I just shoved into my mouth, stunned by her suggestion. “You would want that?”
She's the one who shrugs this time. But I don't miss the pink flush over her otherwise ivory skin. “Why not? I mean, no offense to you, but fucking you was the most interesting thing that's happened to me in... months.” She chuckles toherself about the innuendo as I appraise her, looking for any sign that she wants something more than what she's saying.
