I'm baa-ack!

Really short chapter because I have a cold. Stockholm syndrome is really setting in for Rick, so he's not thinking very clearly. Rape is still bad.


Be patient. Watch and wait for the perfect moment. It's likely you'll only get one shot at escape.

Make it count.

He can do that.

Then again, maybe not. She swears she's not going to hurt him, and thus far has upheld her part of the bargain. She won't say exactly when she plans on releasing him, but hints that it should be before the summer is out. Her assurances grant him some hope at least, which is a good thing because she is being way too careful and he hasn't been able to figure out an escape plan.

Over the next weeks, they settle into a depraved sort of routine. Two days of absolute boredom followed by one day of drugs and sex.

Rape, not sex, rape.

He's still having trouble coming to grips with that.

The thing is, it doesn't really feel like rape anymore. Physically, he enjoys it. She is diligent in ensuring that he finds release, and while the implications of that are disturbing, the pleasure he receives is anything but. He's having the best sex of his life chained to a bed and he's not exactly sure how to feel about it.

The complete lack of entertainment in between only makes it worse.

He sleeps most of the day after, recovering from the hangover and the exertion both, but by the second day he is all but climbing the walls, such as they are. His only refuge is his mind, and even that betrays him. Every time he closes his eyes, he feels her, smells her, all but tastes her.

She has even managed to penetrate his dreams, and in such a situation, oh what dreams may come.

If she would just give him his hands, or even just one, how he could make her moan. She'd be the one begging, he's sure of that. His oral skills are in no way limited to wordplay either, and his cock twitches at the mere thought of tasting her. It's sick and twisted, but it's also something he can't deny, and he finds himself wondering what it would have been like if they had met some other way, perhaps in a coffee shop or at a book signing. He spends half a day imagining them drawn together by murder, as a writer-cop crime-solving duo, but ultimately discards the idea as unrealistic.

His emotions dance all over the place, from giddy to devastated and back again in the course of an hour. He wonders if that is due to the drugs or just the stress of his situation. Probably a little bit of both.

One thing that remains elusive is the why, and that bothers him more than he cares to admit. She evades his questions, which isn't that hard to do given their limited interaction.

Of the verbal variety anyway.

He's grateful for the day/night cycle she provides. He has no wish to experience time deprivation. It helps to count the days, the chopsticks are good for something.

Had he really been here over a month?

This is sick, really sick, he's not really enjoying this. It's Stockholm syndrome, exacerbated by the drugs. He needs to focus, and the first step is convincing himself that she's nuts, that this is wrong. He needs to get angry.

That would be a hell of a lot easier if the sex weren't so damn good.

It's gotten so bad that the loss of light alone is enough to give him a raging hard on. That he knows it's Pavlovian conditioning doesn't help at all, and will likely make him a bit apprehensive about going to the theater for years afterward.

She relents, eventually, giving in to his request to free his hands as long as he agrees to swallow the pill without complaint. His ankle is still bound, but loosely, allowing him to fuck her in all kinds of new and interesting ways.

He's going to enjoy making her beg.


We'll see how it goes. I don't know how often I'll be able to update, but I'll do my best!

And, Reviews? (Insert sad, puppy dog face here)