Chapter 5

E vening. Clients are done for the day. It took every ounce of my abilities to compose myself enough that I could deal with the rest of the day's clients. Yet after they are all gone and I am alone, I am still shaken by what happened. No one gets in my space. No one affects me. No one touches me.

No one but—

Ding.

"X. Where are you?" Voice a low, angry rumble.

"I'm in here," I say. "In my library."

I call it a library. Really, it's just a bedroom lined floor-to-ceiling and wall-to-wall with stuffed bookshelves. One corner is left open, a Louis XIV armchair, a lamp, and a little table clustered in the triangle of open space. In the center of the room is a glass case with my prized books, signed copies and first editions of books by Hemingway, Faulkner, Joyce, and Woolf, a copy of A Streetcar Named Desire signed by Tennessee Williams, and even a fourth-century illuminated translation of The Odyssey .

Prized possessions; gifts.

Reminders.

The doorway to my library is filled, darkened. Dark eyes so filled with fury as to be feral. Hands clenching into fists and releasing in a heartbeat rhythm. I set Smilla's Sense of Snow face down on my thigh. Pretend to a calm I do not feel; such anger is unusual and dangerous. I do not know what to expect.

Five long steps, powerful legs eating the space in a predatory prowl, a quick hand snatches my book and tosses it across the room, spine cracking loudly against a shelf, pages fluttering, a gentle thump as it hits the carpet. I have no time to react, no time to even breathe. A brutally powerful hand seizes my wrist and jerks me upright. Seizes my throat. Fingers at my windpipe, gentle as a lover's kiss, yet shaking with restrained fury.

Breath on my lips and nose, clean of alcoholic taint. Sobriety makes this fury all the more terrifying.

"Georgia Tompkins has been recalled to Texas. You will not be seeing her again."

"All right." It comes out of me as a whisper, penitent. Careful.

Lips move against mine, voice buzzing in a rumble like an earthquake felt from a hundred miles away. "What the fuck was that, X?"

I swallow hard. "I don't know."

" Answer me, goddammit." Fingers squeeze in warning.

"I did. I don't know what happened, Caleb. It took me by surprise. I—I didn't know how to react."

"It was unacceptable. I had to force Michael Tompkins and his queer slut of a daughter to sign further nondisclosure agreements, so your impropriety won't be leaked to the rest of my clientele." I flinch at your cruel and vulgar insult, so casually hurled. I feel offended for Georgia, somehow, though I shouldn't, and do not dare to let it show. "You work for me , X. Remember that. These are my clients. My business associates. You represent me . And when you act that way, when you allow yourself to be touched ... it reflects on me."

"I'm sorry, Caleb."

"You're sorry? You let a lesbian touch you? Almost kiss you? You let her speak to you that way? And you"—a tremble in that avalanche-rumble voice—"you looked like—like it affected you. As if you liked it."

"No, Caleb. I was just—"

"Did you, X? Did you like the way she touched you? Did you like the way she felt? Is it better than the way I feel? The way I touch you?" Hands on my waist, where hers were. Lips, brushing mine. A tongue, touching nose, upper lip. Mirroring. Mocking.

"No . . ."

"No, what ?"

"No, Caleb." This is the correct, expected response. I know this. But I am afraid, and shaken, and unable to breathe, so I forgot.

"No. She doesn't feel better than me, does she?"

"No, Caleb."

I am turned, given a violent shove. I stumble and catch up against the glass of the display case. A foot smacks against the inside of my ankle, tapping my feet apart. Another, to the other side. Now my feet are more than shoulder width apart. Hips against my backside. Reflection in the glass: my face, dark skin flushed, frightened, yet my mouth is opened in a moue, eyes heavy-lidded, lips moist, nostrils flaring, and behind my face a larger one, pale skin, dark hair, dark eyes. Chiseled, sculpted features so beautiful it hurts.

Lips at the shell of my ear: "Were you wet for her, X?"

I shake my head. "No, Caleb," I lie.

"Were your nipples hard for her, X?"

"No, Caleb," I lie.

I am wearing a dove-gray A-line dress, one of a kind, designed and crafted to my measurements by a prominent fashion student studying here in New York City. It is priceless, unique, and one of my favorite garments.

Hands clutch fabric at my shoulders on either side of the zipper at my spine. One sharp tug, and the dress is ripped apart, fluttering to the floor at my feet. I do not breathe, do not speak, not move. I do not dare.

Bra unhooked, straps brushed aside. Hands cup my breasts, lift them to rest on the cold glass. Push at my spine to bend me forward until my breasts are now crushed against the glass, smashed flat. Panties are yanked down, roughly.

"Caleb—"

"‘Please fuck me, Caleb.'" This in a rough rasp. "Say it, X."

I whimper. "P-please—"

"I can't hear you."

I hear a zipper being lowered, feel flesh against my flesh, a hot, rigid erection nestled between the globes of my backside. Hands in the creases of my hips. Hands scour my spine, my back, caressing in gentle circles. Hands delve around my waist, dive between my thighs. Touch me.

"‘I've felt your nips get hard, smelled your pussy get wet. Makes us friends, I'd say.'" The words are whispered in my ear, matched with a rhythmic touch, creating a wet sucking sound from between my thighs. "You're wet for me , aren't you, X?"

"Yes," I whimper.

"Your nipples are hard for me , aren't they, X?"

"Yes," I whisper.

The erection slides, teases. "She can't give you this, can she?"

"No." I swallow hard, hating that my body wants this despite the terror in my gut, despite the pounding knot of confusion in my throat.

"So say it." A moment of silence as fingers move, bringing me to the edge. "Say it, X."

"Please—please fuck me, Caleb." I whisper it, and I am rewarded with a sudden and slow penetration.

I feel misused. Mistreated. Manipulated. I feel dirty.

Yet I want this.

Why?

WHY?

What is wrong with me? My nipples were hard for George, I was wet for her. Yet I am even harder and wetter now.

And I was not afraid of George.

A thrust, another, a slow and methodical fucking . Fist in my hair, pressing my face to the glass.

I see no reflection now, only my books: For Whom the Bell Tolls , As I Lay Dying , The Dead , A Room of One's Own .

Long, slow thrusts. Wet sounds. Sweat on my back. Slapping flesh. My breath, in pants, whimpers. I know how I sound: I sound erotic. I whimper and groan, moan and sigh. My voice betrays me. I cannot deny that I am affected, that such carnal skill, such sexual ferocity, such consummate primal power and unrelenting vigor has me heating up and writhing and detonating, that I am made into a helpless thing, made slave to this. To the sensation of being owned, to being used so. In such moments I am not my own, and I hate and need this in equal measure.

I come, violently, and I hate myself for it.

Lips at the shell of my ear as I lie bent over the glass, the edge cutting into my belly, gasping for breath, near tears: "To whom do you belong, X?" Each word is enunciated carefully, precisely.

"I belong to you, Caleb." It is the raw truth, however I may feel about it.

"Whose body is this?" A slap to my backside, sharp but not precisely painful.

"Yours," I murmur, just above a whisper.

I am pulled upright, a broad, hard palm cupping the back of my neck. Eyes bore down on me, pierce me, dark and still furious, but now fraught with glints and fractions of other unknowable emotions. Fingers delve between my legs. Swipe, smear, gather still-hot, just-spilled seed. Touch it to my tongue. I taste it, musk, tang, saltiness, my own female essence woven around the masculine. "That's me, inside you. You taste us?"

I nod. I cannot speak.

Fingers pinch my nipple, hard. "Your sexuality belongs to me , X. No one else may even so much as fucking smell you, do you understand me? You. Are. Mine. " The pinch does not subside, the pain a sharp ache making me tremble, making some part of me twist and writhe and need. I hate, hate, hate my body for reacting thus. "Do you understand , X?"

"Yes."

The pinch goes harder yet, hard enough to make me whimper. "Yes, what? "

"Yes, Caleb!" I gasp.

Fingers release my nipple, and my knees buckle with relief. I cannot stop myself from falling. Arms catch me, lift me easily. Carry me into my bedroom, settle me with exquisite gentility. Too gently. The tenderness hurts and confuses worse than the pain, worse than the demands of ownership, distress me more than the sexual dominion.

"Sleep." It is a command.

And I . . . ?

I obey.

I wake abruptly, disoriented. My blinds are open, letting in the moonlight and the scintillating shine of countless windows from the skyline. I reach to my bedside table for the remote that lowers the blackout shade.

The remote is gone. My noise machine is gone.

My heart sinks.

I rise, still naked, and move to the window. Look up. The blackout shade is still there, installed above the window. But without the remote, there is no way to lower it.

Tears prick my eyes. This is my punishment, then. Without the curtains and the noise, how will I sleep?

I won't, or not well.

I fight the weakness. Lie down, cover myself with the blanket, pull it over my head, attempt to sleep. But after only a few moments I feel like I'm suffocating, choking on my own hot, recycled breaths. I toss the blanket away. Stare at the ceiling.

I am awake now.

Frustrated and angry, I kick the blanket away, roll off the bed, stalk into my en suite bathroom. Turn on the shower, hot as it will go. Step in, hiss at the scalding heat. I do not lower the temperature, though. I scrub. Mercilessly, I scrub. Until my skin is red and almost bloody, I scrub. Every inch of me, as if I could scour away not just the feel of those harsh, brutal, yet sometimes tender hands, but also to scour away whatever sickness inside me causes me to react to it, to need that touch, whatever venom has poisoned me into needing that sexual domination.

If I could bleed it out, I would.

In a moment of insanity, I take the disposable razor I use to shave my legs and elsewhere. Place the blade on my upper forearm. Drag the razor sideways, and feel the sting as it slices my skin apart. Shocked by the sudden pain, I drop the razor and watch as blood wells crimson on my arm, sluices away, washed down the drain by the shower. I am fascinated by the spill of my own blood, watch it run.

But I do not attempt to cut myself again. I do not have the courage to seek that way out. I am too much a coward. I still wish to live.

And then, without warning, I am slumped on the floor of the shower and sobbing, shower water beating warm down on me, and I am racked by sobs, sobs, sobs. My fists beat at my skull. My fingers claw at my eyes, my hair.

"Fuck." It comes out from clenched teeth. "FUCK!" I shriek it, finally, but the word emerges as a wordless wail, and even that is muffled by the sound of the shower.

It feels good to curse, though.

I find enough strength to stand, to shut off the shower, dry off, and dress in a T-shirt and panties.

Seeking comfort, I pad to my library on bare feet, pruned toes. Maybe a few hours with Smilla will calm me.

The door is locked.

I try it again. Rattle it. Shake it. Slam my fists against the wood.

Another punishment.

I twist in place and rest my back against the door, fighting yet more tears. And as I lean back against the door, my eye casts across the room at the remaining bookshelf.

Which has been emptied of every book.

Except one, a new title.

Obedience to Authority: An Experimental View by Stanley Milgram.