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The keyword here is RISK, Sara.
So don't do it.
Don't watch it.
But my fingers have already moved on their own, albeit shakily, and in moments I'm pressing the power button on the remote control. The TV screen lights up, and the remote control slips out of my hold as I feel myself pale.
The display reveals an almost perversely cinematic scene. Nouveau porn, I'm thinking, with the whole setup pitch-black save for a spotlight beaming straight down on a naked couple, and the camera positioned in such a way that I only see the man's naked back (and behind) as well as a glimpse of the woman he's having sex with...
Doggie style.
The words pop out of nowhere, and my legs snap together. I know this is not the time to feel embarrassed for thinking such dirty thoughts, but I am. I'm embarrassed, frightened, and horrified. Because deep, deep inside of me, past the layers of fear and panic—-
What I see on the TV turns me on. It's as if my body and brain have completely disengaged from each other, and while my brain understands that shit has indeed hit the fan, my body doesn't seem to care. All it's aware of is the couple on the screen, and when I finally hit Play—-
The man is shoving in and out of his partner like he's about to run out time. He's fast. Furiously fast. You can tell with how his hips are slapping so powerfully against the back of the woman's thighs, and the sound makes me squirm.
Slap! Slap! Slap!
The sound is hard and wet. It should've disgusted me, but instead I'm just...hornier. I squirm some more, and my legs press closer together. But it's no use, and my eyes squeeze shut when I feel something unmistakably creamy and sticky lining my folds.
This is wrong.
I'm wrong.
But then it gets even more wrong when I hear the woman suddenly crying out like a kitten being strangled—-
My eyes fly open, and I realize she is being strangled.
The camera angle has switched, and I now see the man's fingers around her throat. He's squeezing the life out of her, his grip far from tender or lover-like, and my heart nearly stops when her eyes start to roll back.
She's dying!
Dying!
She gasps, and the fingers around her throat instantly loosen. A part of me expects her to run away, but instead she gasps again, and I realize in shock that her gasps...are also of pleasure. Because that look on her face—-
She's cumming.
And so is he.
The slaps of his hips against her thighs are now eclipsed by plunging sounds—-
Thud, thud, thud!
The sound of footsteps makes me freeze, and the next thing I know, I'm seeing a man coming up to the rear deck. He has a Kevlar vest over his shirt, and my heart jumps to my throat when I see he's fully armed.
Oh God!
I'm not sure if I've made a sound, but the man suddenly looks up, and I'm stunned to realize it's the same man in the video.
Why is he here? Why am I here? What's happening?
"I'll handle things from here, Gerard."
That voice...
I spin around as "Gerard" takes his leave, and a sob shakes my body when I find myself looking into a pair of eyes that are Paul-Newman-blue. I know this is crazy, but I'm crying out of relief. Because what they say is true.
The devil you know is truly better, for realz.
Mr. Sinister cups my chin, so suddenly that I don't even have the chance to decide if I should resist his touch or not. "Are you alright, my dove?"
Another one of those randomly pointless thoughts invade my mind...and Mr. Sinister actually seems to sense this when his fingers around my chin tighten a fraction. "What is it?"
"What is...what?"
The fingers holding my chin fall away, but his gaze remains trained on my face. "You were thinking of something."
My eyes widen.
"What is it?" he asks again.
I consider lying, but my internal debate lasts only for a second. This is not worth lying about, and so I tell him the truth—-
"I was thinking," I say in a small voice, "that I didn't expect you to be the type to use avian endearments."
—-no matter how mortifying.
A moment passes.
And then another.
And another.
Until finally, he speaks, saying very, very gently, "I'll have to punish you for that."
I'm shocked at first.
And then I look at him, thinking he's joking.
Hoping he's joking.
But he's not.
Even when the expression on his too-beautiful face is calm, the sick feeling in my stomach tells me he absolutely means it, and my instincts take over.
I make a run for it. Again.
But I fail. Again.
He catches me by the waist, and I turn feral without planning to. I give it all I've got as I try fighting him off. Clawing. Scratching. Kicking. Punching. Even biting, for God's sake.
But in the end, all of it is still pointless.
He's too strong, and nothing I do - just nothing I do at all makes a difference.
Mr. Sinister sets my still-struggling body down on one of the leather couches.
"Stay still."
He doesn't shout, but he doesn't have to. The steel underlining his words is more than enough: it reminds me that I'm completely at his mercy, and it decimates my ability to move.
"I know you panicked," he says evenly, "so I'll forgive your ill-advised attempt to escape. But do not expect me to do so again. You literally can't swim to save your life—-"
My heart nearly shatters. How does he know that?
"—-and I shall be extremely furious if I ever end up having to rescue you from drowning."
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.