Learning to Drown (2 page)

“For sex,” I hissed, though no one
would hear but me. “For sex and for the sake of my
relationship
,” I
snorted.

At first my abduction fantasy had
worked wonders. It had been manna from heaven, breathing life into a dull and
boring (yet still new) sex life. Damien had manhandled me and tied me up.
Cussed at me (
you dirty fucking whore),
humiliated me by making me crawl
to him,  tossed me in the back of his truck under the tarp (per my explicit
instructions). He’d driven around in the then cool fall air until I had been
bumped and bruised enough to have adrenaline coursing through my thumping
veins. Then he had taken me home to his screened-in back porch and bent me over
the old plaid sofa he kept out there. Or marched me into the basement stairwell
as I struggled against the bonds that held my wrists and ankles together. With
a Bowie knife he’d cut the rope around at my ankles, put my tethered hands
around his neck and fuck me. My back rubbed raw on the stone basement wall or
my knees scratched from the rough wooden porch floor. Damien fucked me until my
breathing was more like sobbing. He’d smack my face, pinch my skin, call me a
slut and then fuck me some more until I was boneless and my head buzzed.

It had been amazing. Such a good
surrender. Almost what I wanted.
Almost.
But then…it had waned. Every
time after, the whole scenario was a little less. Not quite as bright or
magical or surreal as that first time. I didn’t come as hard. My heart didn’t
beat as fast. My surrender was less crisp and a little petulant. So I ask
again, what the hell am I doing?

The big black truck rumbled under me,
the vibrations of the engine rocking up my spine and shaking my teeth in my
head. I was so cold, my jaw clenched painfully. Nipples spiked against the
flimsy green bra that barely covered me. Any moisture that may be between my
legs was surely frozen.

Then Damien’s voice drifted through
the lid of the tool box. “Ember? You there?”

Was I here? Where the fuck else would
I be? “What is it?” I wanted to sound terrified and submissive. Nervous, unsure
and weak. Instead my voice was cold and annoyed.
“I forgot the whip. You wanted me to…well, it’s in the house. I’ll be right
back. Okay?” Then the crack and pop of the driveway gravel under his boots.

He would be right back?

I stretched, trying to push back the
fear. It swelled in my chest like some thick black liquid. No good. Panic still
pressed against my lungs. My hands, cuffed so I looked to be praying, hit the
lid of the box with a thud. My knees banged metal in front of me. I was twisted
in a loose kind of fetal position. It was only supposed to be a short ride. And
he was not supposed to leave me! That was not part of the abduction scenario.

It was all controlled and scripted and
safe. And boring.

The side door to the porch banged. I
could picture it
¾
painted a shiny green, the screen old
and shredded in places. Now Damien would be unlocking the kitchen door. He’d be
inside. Any minute now he’d find the whip and come back out and I would be free
of the anxiety that filled me.

Then I heard it. First, a dream-like
monstrous growling of another engine. Over that--barely-- the crackle crunch of
other feet on the drive. My heart faltered, mouth went dry. Who the fuck was
that?

“Hello?”

Something creaked and groaned and
there was the sound of metal on metal. Great hisses of what sounded like
pressurized air. A swell of noise swallowed my voice, but I yelled again
anyway. “Hello! Who is it?” I banged the walls as hard as I could given my
twisted position. Heh. That was funny. Twisted. Dear God, I certainly was.
Whoisthat?
Whoisthat? Whoisthat
? My brain chattered as hard as my teeth.

The truck went semi-vertical on me,
like a dog standing on its hind end. I slid, my back smacking the
diamond-patterned metal of the box. What the fuck? This was not Damien. Damien
was not driving this truck. Was I being towed? I yelled in earnest but every
word was swallowed by deafening sound of big machinery. Then came little
bucking motion as the truck started to move.

I was going to pee my pants. I was
sure of it. Not that I had any pants but my panties were in danger and the
possibility of a heart attack seemed very real. What a headline this could be:
Nearly
naked bound woman found frozen in pickup tool box! It was a sex game says the
boyfriend!

The truck rolled impossibly fast down
the drive and we were off. I pictured it in my head. The end of the drive. The
mailbox. The old farmhouse receding like a bad dream as someone piloted me into
an actual nightmare. I clawed at the metal but all it did was make my fingers
ache worse. Very faintly, over my wildly beating heart, I heard the slam of the
screen door and Damien’s voice. “Hey! That’s my truck, mister!”

That’s my truck, mister?

And that is when I decided I was done.
No more Damien. No more trying with games and toys and scenarios and work,
work, work. He was too much work. It shouldn’t be this hard. And it sure as
shit should have been, “Hey! You’ve got my girlfriend, mister!”

Asshole.

* * * *

The blindfold covered my nose a bit
and it was hard to breathe. The imagined lack of air swelled the panic in me
until it was big and bright and toothy.

“Down the steps. Move slow or I’ll
just give you a nice little shove and speed you up a bit.” His voice cold,
nasty. And I could believe him because he sounded sincere.

My body thrummed with an urgency. Fear
mixed with excitement. The headiest of all scents on my skin, the cool sweat of
terror. I hated the dark cold stone basement stairwell with its spider webs and
creepy crawly things. I hated the dirty earthen floor and the cold breeze that
always seemed to seep in between the stones and mortar. I hated the malicious
feel of the empty looming space. I loathed the cellar and Damien knew it. But
he was angry at me, so this is how we would play.

“You have to be in charge of
everything, don’t you, Ember?” His petty arguments and jibes were bleeding into
our game, but his annoyance was real and that made my heartbeat quicken. He was
truly angry with me. And though it wasn’t the best idea to provoke him, I did.
I stopped and threw my head back like any good prisoner would. Felt my skull
connect with his sharp Roman nose. Heard his gasp of surprise.

Nipples pointed, pussy moist with
excitement, I waited. And it came. He thrust me forward with big strong
forearms so I had to stumble and shuffle to keep from falling.

“Do not tempt me, Ember,” he growled.

I blinked under the blindfold. My
heart rate so high I could feel my pulse in my ears, my forehead, my cunt. “Let
me go.”

Part of me really wanted him to. Part
of me was scared I had fucked up. I heard his feet clad in work boots come
toward me. Thudding fast like he was angry. Because he was. “Stupid fucking,
cow. You’re down here because you want to be.” When he yanked my arms up to
cuff me, he yanked too hard. Pain sang in my armpits and my body let loose more
warm want. This is what it would really be like. Roughness and disdain. Insults
and yanking.

I didn’t think. I kicked out, my toes
connecting with his leg around the sharp bone of his shin. I heard a toe crack.
Wondered if I had broken it kicking his hard body with my bare foot.
“Motherfucker,” Damien hissed. “Why are you doing this, you cunt?"

Authentic. Real. Anger. I shivered, my
whole body rolling with urgent desire. “Please,” I breathed.

He stopped. I heard the fridge kick on
upstairs, the neighbor's dog, Clancy, barking up a storm. I heard Damien’s
breathing and I heard him toeing the dirt floor. Thinking. “Please what?” He
traced his fingers along my belly and the muscles fluttered and jumped. His
hand slid into my panties, his fingers found my wetness. He sank two big
fingers into my pussy, pressed until the words flew out of my head like little
restless birds.

He took his hand away and the crack of the slap sounded in my ears before
the pain lit my head up a camera flash. “Please what?”

I shook my head, bit my lips, tried
not to cry. My throat coiled thick and tight with unshed tears.

I felt him walk behind me. He reached
around, pushing his big clumsy hands back into my little white panties. He
flicked my clit, pinching too hard, too fast until I shuddered. His other
fingers thrust into me like he owned every inch of my skin. I sighed, cried.
Shook with rage, humiliation, need.

Damien’s knee spread my legs wider and
his hand came down again, this time the backs of my thighs--hard and sharp like
a gun crack. Every single time my ears detected the sound of his strike before
my body felt it. My skin beat with my pulse, my ears too. My head full of
cotton and the sound of the ocean as every blow thrummed up the backs of my
thighs in to my wet pussy. Damien struck me over and over, running a pattern up
my legs. But never higher. Just a running vine of blows up my long legs. Damien
is an artist. How many times had he threatened to paint small portraits, words,
pictures up along my thighs? Down the backs of my legs? Now he left handprints
where he had once sketched invisible works of art.

He yanked me so my arms suspended me
and my legs left the ground. He tugged my panties so I swayed in my cuffs.
Trying to help him but tangling myself up. I heard the snick of scissors and
the sound of a zipper and the word, “Bitch,” rolled off his lips before he
pushed into me from behind.

One big rude thrust and he was in. In
me and moving in huge, parting thrusts aided by the moisture my body had
provided. “Look what makes her wet. Look how bad she is. What a little whore
you are, Ember. Don’t you ever hit me again,” he growled. And that tone, that
was Damien telling the truth "Don’t you ever do that again.”

He bit the side of my throat so that
sparkling halos flashed behind the blindfold. His fingers found my clit,
pinching again. Pinching almost too hard for me to get off. Almost.

The anger in those thrusts--real. The
blows that had rained down--real. The ragged brutal thrusts deep inside of
me--real. It all pin wheeled inside of me. Gathering speed and intensity until
I sagged from the cuffs, sobbing, coming, saying it over and over again.
“Please. Please. Please.”

When Damien came he growled like an
animal. With a bit of sadness in his voice he said, “There is no pleasing you.
Not really.”

* * * *

The hardest jolt rattled me and I
tried to force myself back into my reality, pulling from my self-hypnosis of
sex. What I realized was a farewell analysis of my time with Damien. He was
right, that had been the last time it had really, really worked. There was not
pleasing me. At least not for Damien.

I tried to focus, freaking out would
solve nothing at all. I would only blow out my energy reserve and leave myself
weaker, colder and worse off. But it was hard, I had no idea where I was or who
was driving. Bright white spots flowered in front of my eyes in the gloom.
Maybe this was what death was like, startling flashes of white in a crushing
dark. And here I was ready for death in my panties and thigh highs, tartish
four inch heels and my hair teased up into a fuck-me-big-boy bed head. A hell
of a way to meet St. Peter. Not that I believed in all of that for the most
part. But still, it would be pretty damn embarrassing to stumble up to the
pearly gates dressed like a hooker on the prowl.

“You are not dying.  You are
forgetting to breathe.” Funny, I sounded so calm and reasonable. Too bad I
could hear my own heartbeat over the Hemi engine. “Breathe, you moron. Just.
Breathe.”

So I did. Pothole after pothole, speed
bump after endless speed bump, I did my yoga breathing. Left turns, right
turns, uphill, down. My teeth chattered, skin pebbling with goose bumps over my
goose bumps.

I worried at my misery, rolling my
doubts and anger around in my head like river rocks I was trying to smooth. How
did I get here? To this fucking place? Where was my intimacy? My happily ever
after? Hell
¾
I’d take a happy just for now.

Another bump smacked my forehead
against the low lid and I screamed. I had been  using my fantasy and the kink
as glue to bind me and Damien together when I should have let us drift apart.
Let our relationship die a natural death.

“Free self analysis, no clothes
required!” I chirped and then laughed. A slight edge of hysteria in my voice. I
screamed for real to let the frustration out.  Jangled my cuffs, kicked and
then caved and gave up. The tears came and went. Returned. Dried.

After what seemed like hours but was
probably only minutes (time sure did fly when your nipples were threatening to
poke through your bra), the truck stopped. Painfully slow, it lowered before
finally banging terra firma so hard my bones seemed to rattle. “Fuck!” I
screamed and started banging again.

I held my breath, body trembling
uncontrollably, heart jackrabbiting. Could anyone hear me? If it wasn’t so damn
dark, I’d be able to see the skin above my heart jumping. “Hello! Oh God,
please, hello?” I struggled, trying to ignore the shooting pain in my toes and
knees and elbows. All the bony unforgiving parts of me.