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If this were a fantasy, I'd be over the moon that Mr. Sinister is shaping up to be everything I want in an imaginary kidnapper. He's beautiful. Bad. Brutal. He might even have billions in the bank. He has all the sexiest Bs that I can think of, but...
This is real life.
Real.
And that's why all of those Bs only make me feel like I'm about to implode.
I used to find it ridiculous how the dialogues of nameless extras in slasher movies all sound the same. I used to laugh and roll my eyes when I hear the would-be victim ask things like 'why me' or 'why are you doing this'. I used to be such a horrible snob when it comes to those movies, and now it's like karma is biting me in the butt as I find myself whispering the exact same thing.
"Why me?"
"Because it can only be you."
He says it in a way that it's almost as if he expects me to see something profound in his words, but all it makes me think is that he's being impossibly cruel. "Why does it have to be only me that you want to hurt? You don't even—-"
"I never said anything like that—-"
"But you said that you're going to punish me—-"
"And I will," he agrees. "But did I say anything about hurting you?"
I stare at him, stunned and uncomprehending, and my confusion only grows when he suddenly stands up. I watch him walk away, and I'm struck by how tall he is. I've always thought my height at 5’4 is decent, but him being a foot taller (at least) makes me feel puny. He bends down to take a bottle of water out of the fridge, and I notice belatedly that he's ditched the field jacket I saw him wearing earlier. All he has now is a thin cotton shirt and a snug pair of denims. Makes sense, too, since the breeze coming from the open doorway behind him is more warm than icy, and it tells me for certain that we are far, far away from Ivy Creek, New Jersey.
My gaze strays back to Mr. Sinister, who's now pouring fresh sparkling water into a crystal goblet.
Will you look at that, Sara?
A kidnapper with manners.
He takes a seat beside me when he returns, and I fight against the urge to inch away, not wanting to unnecessarily antagonize him.
"This might help settle your nerves."
I don't think it will, but I just nod. He insists on slowly guiding the goblet to my lips, and the first sip makes me realize I am thirsty. I drink hungrily after that, but when he asks me later if I want another glass, thirst is not what makes me want to say yes.
The truth is, I'd be more than willing to drink gallons if he lets me; anything is better than getting tortured. Or murdered.
Mr. Sinister sits even closer to me when he comes back with my second glass. He lets me drink on my own afterwards, but when I'm done, he surprises me by slowly wiping a drop of water from the corner of my mouth. His touch is feather-soft, the pad of his thumb rough and callused, and it makes me feel hot and cold all at the same time.
"Better now?"
The question makes me look at my kidnapper helplessly. I don't want to lie, but I'm scared to speak honestly.
Just because I'm no longer dehydrated or in shock doesn't mean I'm alright. Surely he knows that?
"You're distraught."
Blue eyes hold mine captive, and I'm somehow unable to look away. "If there's something you'd like to say, do so. You can tell me anything."
His tone is almost...cajoling, but this only makes the whole situation surreal. I'm imprisoned in a yacht, this too-beautiful man is my captor, and I am his captive.
I used to dream of being someone's captive, and now I am one, and the realization drives me to the verge of hysteria.
"Please." My voice catches. "Please don't hurt me."
"Let us put it this way, my dove. Whether you're hurt or not is up to you."
I probably shouldn't believe him, but I do, and so I hear myself ask haltingly, "What should I do...so you won't hurt me?"
"It's rather simple, really."
I truly don't want to think he's crazy, but he has to be to say such a thing. Nothing about being kidnapped can ever be simple—-
"All you have to do is allow yourself to enjoy my touch."
—-as that.
I stare at him in shock, and he stares back at me unflinchingly.
"You c-can't be serious," I stammer.
"But I am."
"You abducted me!"
"An unorthodox way for two people to meet," he says dismissively, "but it happens."
A disbelieving laugh spills past my lips. Did he really just say that? He practically made it sound like abduction was just another form of meet-cute!
I slowly shake my head. "I just can't—-"
"No, my dove. What you really mean is you've been made to think you mustn't...but you can." He leans forward, and I stiffen involuntarily even as my heart starts to race. "It's not the world I abducted, but you."
It's like having a devil speak my most shameful thoughts out loud, and I'm tempted to cover my ears so I don't hear anything else.
"It's not the world's fate that hangs in the balance," he whispers, "but yours. It's not the world I'm going to punish...but you."
His thumb touches my lower lip at his last word, and it's all I can do not to cry out.
"So tell me, my dove. Why must you make yourself suffer pointlessly?"
Lust slithers under my skin at what my captor is suggesting. I never imagined he'd say such a thing, but now that he has—-
"I didn't kidnap you just to look at you, and you know that."
I am confused and appalled.
"I kidnapped you to claim every orifice of your body."
Ashamed and enthralled.
He's my kidnapper, for God's sake, but he truly expect me to allow myself to enjoy his touch.
The very idea is outrageously reprehensible. It's unacceptable in every society and impermissible when considering every moral standard we're supposed to uphold.
What he's proposing is utterly indecent, and while I know I mustn't ever say yes—-
His words are also like poison, and the more I try not to think of what he's saying, the more the idea ruthlessly takes root.
I feel his eyes start roaming my body, and it's all I can do not to cry out as I feel my entire being turn into a battlefield under his gaze. I can already feel the sinuously obscene tendrils of his words relentlessly conquering and defiling everything in its path: they rub erotically against the nerves in my brain until my thoughts scatter, and they wrap seductively around my heart until it's creamy, red-hot desire pumping out of its vessels. I squeeze my eyes shut in an effort to stem the rushing tide of its poison, but it's too late: those lust-fueled tendrils have already snaked all the way down to my womanhood—-
Oh God, forgive me.
Mr. Sinister's nostrils flare when he sees me suddenly snap my legs close. Triumph glitters in his gaze, and I nearly whimper because it means he knows his words have successfully infiltrated my senses.
Fight it off, Sara.
Don't give up!
Resist it.
And I do try. I try to keep his poison from tainting the part of me that's already wet and quivering, but the devious tendrils of his words are unstoppable, and they inevitably batter down my painfully flimsy defenses.
His poison floods my core: it burns and takes shape, and just when I think it can't get any worse—-
"Surrender to me, my dove, and I will make your every dream and nightmare come true."
Oh God.
His words plunge inside of me almost like invisible tongues that hungrily lick every membrane I have in that secret place—-
And I am powerless against it.
His words consume me, and just like that, my fall from grace begins.