Lucinda Betts

“You no doubt have many questions, and I will answer none of them.”

His words did not reassure me, but I didn’t say as much. I tried to seem implacable.

“Instead, I’m going to give you some rules. They are simple and basic. You will obey them.” With the blindfold covering my eyes, panic threatened to overwhelm me. I couldn’t imagine feeling more vulnerable.

I would change my mind about that.

“Who are you?” I demanded, doing my best to sound imperious. “My father will pay you, if it’s ransom you’re after.”

“I like your attitude,” he responded, “but I will not answer any of your questions.” I wondered just how much Dad could afford. This guy seemed like he had expensive tastes.

I heard him pause as he approached me, and then he said, “Here are the rules.”

I waited, hoping for something like, “Say ‘please,’ and you can go home.” That’s not what I got.

“I will not penetrate you until you beg for it.”

At this, I started fighting my bonds in earnest. “Penetrate” could have several meanings, none of which sounded good. “Are you crazy?” I screamed. “Get away from me!” I tried to rub my blindfold off. Was he getting closer? The blindfold stubbornly held. Mariah was a woman of many talents. Damn her.

“Don’t be afraid. I will not enter you until you ask—beg. And you will. I will not harm you.”

In my experience, people say, “I’m not going to hurt you,” just before they hurt you. What doctor tells a patient that the injection will hurt like a son of a gun?

I screamed wildly.

When he caressed the arch of my foot I screamed again, kicking my tied feet maniacally. Unperturbed, he waited until I stopped. My throat was beginning to ache. While continuing his caress up my ankle, he said, “I will touch you everywhere, in every imaginable way, but I will not penetrate you until you want it. And you will want it.” His voice sounded huskier than I remembered.

I knew then that he used “penetrate” as in “to insert the penis into the vagina or anus of.” I’d been—unrealistically—hoping that he’d meant “penetrate” as in “to gain insight.” As his warm palm approached the inside of my thigh, I found myself hoping for a version of “penetrate” that involved knives and hearts, preferable my knife and his heart.

“One day,” he said, “just hearing my voice will make you wet.” His thumb just brushed through the thin silk of my panties. I jumped, arching my back to get away from him.

He chuckled and said, “That’s my goal—to have you wanting me at the sound of my voice. You’ve had too much control for too long. It’s time for a change.” His thumb danced gently across my labia despite my efforts.

I made some small sound in the back of my throat, realizing the hopelessness of my situation. “Today—now—you can fight me without repercussions. But listen to my rules, for I will not change them.” I squirmed away again, but no matter where I moved, his clever hands found a light way to tease. His fingertips found my nipple through the cotton fabric of my dress and bra. The gentle pinch sent a shock through my body. What had I done to deserve this?

“Why are you doing this to me?” I sobbed. “Get away!”

“I demand that you will not fight me. That is my rule.” Again, I bucked to no avail, and again he laughed. His thumb insistently pushed against my nipple, and the corresponding thrill that ran through me sparked more than fear. “Don’t worry. I know that today you can’t help but fight. You won’t be punished for any recalcitrance today. But tomorrow and thereafter…”

The threat hung in the air, and I thought that he was going to leave it unfinished. How little I knew him then. His breath warmed my cheek as he whispered in my ear, “Tomorrow and thereafter, you will be punished if you fight me.”

I froze with the intensity of his whispered voice, and he left before I could respond.

His lips burned a path along her thigh, her hip. Kisses circled her bellybutton. She groaned as his teeth gently grazed her collarbone. His tongue reached out and found a quivering tendon. He began to trace a hot, wet trail downward. Iole caught her breath as his hands explored the length of her thigh. Inexorably, his fingers approached the soft vee between her thighs and— “No!” she exclaimed in her dream. “Do not touch me!” She twisted away from him.

She fell back into a dreamless sleep.

“Iole…” She heard him call as she walked on an unfamiliar path. His voice seemed to come from all directions. “Iole…” she heard again.

She followed the narrow lane, looking around carefully. The foliage was greener than she was used to, and the earth beneath her feet was darker. She caught a flash of feathers. Iridescent blues and metallic greens melted into the trees.

“Show yourself,” she called. After a moment’s consideration, she added, “And name yourself.”

No answer.

Stubbornly, she stood. She would not be his pawn. “Iole…” She heard laughter in his voice, but it sounded slightly sad.

Still she stood, jaw set.

A white dove landed an arm’s length away. Unearthly, its feathers glowed against the verdant background. Violet and amber fireflies lit up the trees, although the sun’s rays peaked through the branches. Another dove landed nearby, equally ethereal. One approached the other with a gentle ‘coo,’ and they began to preen each other. Moments later, the pair flew up the path, wing to wing.

“They’re just pigeons!” Iole called into the strange twilight, unimpressed.

“Aphrodite’s symbols of love and peace,” she heard.

“Delicious in a marinade of rose hips.”

“Iole…” Chagrin tinged his voice.

The dream shifted.

He stroked her breasts lightly, tantalizingly. “Your breasts are as beautiful as I remembered,” she heard.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Tell the truth, Iole.”

“I am truthful.”

“Do you really care at this moment who I am?”