He was dangerous. Of that much, she was absolutely certain.
The clonidine that dripped slowly from the IV bag at her side was gradually wearing off but Marilyn took extra care to appear sedated to prevent the doctor from upping her dosage further. She was not foolish enough to attempt escape quite yet - the time was not right, she knew, and his occasional darkly off-handed mentions of someone named Lana had taught her that staying in Oliver's good graces was imperative. If she found the right moment to escape, she had to be sure to succeed; she was certain a single misstep would cost her life, as certain as she was that Dr. Thredson was dangerous.
He had made no moves towards the sharp, glinting metal tools that hung from the wall, but he didn't need to. The predatory energy thrummed through his entire body, radiated from his eyes, rose off his skin like steam off the streets in summertime. It was true, Oliver had been kind to her, but Marilyn had barely moved since arriving in his basement a day ago. (Had it been only a day? She hoped it had - there had been one sunset and sunrise, but she supposed there was no way of knowing how long she'd been out from the original injection in her bedroom.)
She was wary of testing his patience. There was every chance that once she started to become more animated she may fall out of his good graces, upset him somehow, and it would be over. That was another thing Marilyn seemed to know with a dark certainty: when a cat grew tired of playing with a terrified captive mouse, it ended the game the only way it knew how.
His heavy footsteps had fallen above her head about an hour ago, then the house lay silent. She had been too afraid to move for quite some time but at last it seemed safe to at least test the waters. Marilyn slowly drew herself to a sitting position, feeling her stiff muscles cry out in protest. She popped the tension out of her neck, then stretched her arms carefully above her head. Just a little sore, that was all, nothing she couldn't handle.
Somewhere in the house a floorboard creaked. Marilyn stopped short, her heart pounding thickly in her throat.
Moments went by. Nothing.
"The house settling," she murmured to herself, and was surprised to hear how dry her voice had become. She swallowed a few times but couldn't bring herself to swing her legs over the side of the bed. What if it wasn't the house? What if he was just trying to trick her, to see if she would escape when left alone?
The prospect was terrifying, but so was the idea of laying motionless in this strange basement bedroom for the rest of her life.
Marilyn wiggled her toes in case her legs had fallen asleep, wrestling with the choice. To get up or not to get up? What if she got to her feet and did some exploring, but he could tell when he returned home?
To her horror she realized she would have to remove the IV to get out of bed or, at the very least, wheel the IV stand around with her as she moved. The doctor was not stupid - he would notice. He would be able to tell. And he would be angry.
Above her, loud as a gunshot, the front door slammed. She fell back against the pillow at once, pulling the covers back to her chest where he'd left them. Her hesitation may have saved her life, Marilyn knew; her heart hammered hard realizing how close she had been to a fatal mistake.
There were sounds of movement from upstairs. She had begun to hope he'd lost interest in her for the moment but after about ten minutes he came bounding down the stairs, a paper sack in his arms.
"Good morning," he said cheerfully, trotting over to the workbench. Oliver set the sack down and shot her a smile over his shoulder. "It's a beautiful day. I may open the window later so you can smell the fresh air."
Marilyn's eyes flicked to the corner where bright fall light filtered through a small curtain. She had noticed it before in her initial sweep of the basement, and the fact that it may be opened in the near future made her pulse quicken.
She was already contemplating various methods of escape when out of the corner of her eye Dr. Thredson started to move away from the workbench, towards her bed, slowly.
"Marilyn," he said in a strange tight voice, "how do you feel today?"
His tone was ice cold, one she had not yet heard but somehow knew was possible. Marilyn switched her gaze back to the doctor's face and feigned the initial dopey effect the clonidine had on her. She blinked heavily and shrugged her shoulders but she was terrified - his dark brows were knitted above eyes that burned with black fire, he was suddenly and terribly angry with her, she had known this would happen oh god what would she do now...
"Answer my question," Oliver demanded. She looked desperately back at the window, then at him, then to the window again. Before she could think of how to respond he had already moved away from her with long striding steps to another part of the basement.
Panic consumed her. Marilyn knew she should rip the IV from her arm and make a break for the stairs but she was simply too frightened. She watched the only opportunity for escape slip through her fingers like grains of sand as Dr. Thredson returned with a heavy iron restraint clearly meant for her.
"Please don't," she gasped, adrenaline finally coursing through her veins and spurring her to action. She shot to a sitting position and tried to draw her legs beneath her but he moved too quickly; the sturdy metal cuff snapped around her ankle like a vise. Oliver bent and fastened the other end of the restraint to one heavy bed post, setting it into place with a solid final click from a formidable-looking padlock.
Marilyn knew as soon as the chain was attached to her leg that begging would be useless, so she abruptly switched tactics. As the doctor stood and turned towards her she grasped his lapels to pull him close, kneeling before him on the bed, her face turned up towards his in suppliance.
"I'm sorry, Oliver, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you, I was nervous, I didn't know what to do, please forgive me Oliver, please." The words poured from her in a steady rush as Marilyn ran her hands up and down his firm chest in what she hoped was a soothing manner.
The doctor glared at her but didn't move; he seemed mildly surprised by this reaction, and this was good, it was very good.
"Your pupils," he said coldly. "When properly sedated the patient's pupils are significantly dilated and eye movement is delayed." When she didn't respond, he said with disgust, "I saw you look at the window. Planning your escape. Just like the rest of them."
"No, Oliver, no," Marilyn murmured, moving closer, hands still caressing him through his white button-up shirt. "I'm not like them, you said so, remember? You know I'm not like them, baby."
Her last word seemed to strike a nerve within him. The terrible anger cleared slightly and his eyes scanned her face as though looking for something.
She was taking control of the situation. The power was shifting, she could feel it like a silk nightie slipping over her head.
Marilyn was no stranger to calming angry, violent men; in high school, she'd dated a football player with a bad temper and a taste for his father's whiskey. He had never hit her, oh no, she would never have stood for that, but he'd come close. All it took was a little baby-talk and a gentle touch to soothe him into submission; their lovemaking had often been even better after these flare-ups. He had died in a car accident before graduation, she had mourned him, and then she had taken this skill to the bars with her as a cocktail waitress. She'd prevented more than a few drunken brawls by telling some truck driver that "he's not worth it, baby", and it had resulted in more than a few hefty tips in an evening.
"I'm sorry, Oliver, baby," she repeated, watching his eyes for the desired effect and seeing it immediately. "I was just so tired, but I'm not tired now, and I was worried you'd be upset, I didn't know how to tell you, I'm sorry." Marilyn dared to inch her body closer to his and cupped his cheek in her palm. He stared at her like a wild animal stares at a stranger offering food, one that can't decide whether to trust the hand or to bite it off.
"I won't remove it," Dr. Thredson told her warily, still searching her face for something indefinable.
"No, I understand," she murmured, "I know, I've been bad, I deserve it. You were right to do it, Oliver, you were right to punish me." Marilyn moved her hand to the back of his neck and stroked the skin there. Her body vibrated with adrenaline and excitement; regardless of this man's obvious instability he was still a man, a handsome man, and he smelled of some dark spiced cologne that she found intoxicating.
She was beginning to worry that fear was increasingly coupled with arousal and what it meant for her.
Oliver's breath was heavy. He seemed at war with himself, not sure of what to do next. Marilyn saw her moment and snatched it with greedy hands, bringing her mouth to his in a hard desperate kiss.
He responded favorably by parting her lips with his tongue and tangling his fingers in her hair, drawing her body tight against his own. She felt the mildly painful tug of the IV in her arm pulling free and ignored it. It was imperative that she melt into his touch, become his again – make him think that he was her whole world, and for right now, wasn't that true? Wasn't that horribly, terrifyingly true?
When Dr. Thredson broke the kiss at last they were both short of breath and trembling, but for entirely different reasons.
"I brought you something," he said huskily, and the relief that flowed through Marilyn left her somewhat lightheaded. He wasn't going to kill her. Not yet, anyway.
She let her lips split into a smile as he released her to retrieve the paper sack he'd abandoned at the workbench. When Oliver returned he held an elegant silver cigarette holder and a matching lighter.
He popped the case open and displayed the treasure within – six or seven fat joints of marijuana, remarkably like the ones the busboy had sold her only nights ago.
"I'm not really a proponent of recreational drugs," he said, smiling like a little boy with a big secret, "but after the initial test run, I couldn't deny the… desirable effect it had on you." Dr. Thredson set the cigarette case down on her nightstand but kept the silver lighter in his palm.
"Thank you," Marilyn murmured. She stared at the joints in the case. Test run?
"When you need this," he told her sternly, gesturing to the lighter in his palm, "you may ask for it. But I can't let you have it. You understand."
"Yes," she said. Her mind was still on the marijuana cigarettes he'd brought her. Had he given them to the busboy to sell to her? How did he get the illegal drug, being a respected doctor? And how long had he been watching her?
Oliver pocketed the lighter and sat on the edge of her bed again, looking at her face, intent.
"Say it again," he asked softly, and somehow she knew exactly what he meant.
"Baby," Marilyn cooed, then Thredson was atop her, his nimble hands stripping her of the chintzy white nightgown, leaving her stark naked and vulnerable.
He went straight for her breasts, sucking hungrily on each pert nipple in turn. The sudden heat of his mouth made her moan and this pleased him; he worked feverishly on the tender buds like a man possessed.
She tried to resist, she really did, but the attention of his gifted tongue caused a surge of wetness in her loins. The doctor spread her legs with his knee and the iron chain around her ankle clanked noisily.
This was wrong, it was very wrong, so why did she find herself arching her back towards him, opening her thighs wide to let him in?
Dr. Thredson fumbled clumsily with his belt and zipper, unleashing his throbbing cock at last. Marilyn bucked her hips to his and met his thrust; they both let out a sort of strangled cry then fell immediately in sync, their bodies moving in sweet unison.
How did I get here? she thought fuzzily as the doctor filled the hot space between her legs again and again. How in god's name did I get here?
Marilyn knew the lighter was in his pocket, she knew she could reach in while he thrusted and simply pluck the thing from the pants that now sagged halfway off of him, and yet… she didn't.
She knew she could set him ablaze on top of her if she wanted to. She could, possibly, escape.
And she didn't.
Instead, she moved her lips next to his ear, huskily whispered his name into it, and began to gently lick and bite the soft skin of his neck. She felt him come undone in her arms, spasming, groaning, giving in utterly to his release at her hands.
At the same time she came, clawing at his white dress shirt, wrapping her legs tightly around him as she pulsed around his thick cock.
When it was all over they simply lay there and struggled for breath together.
Eventually Thredson drew away from her and she noted, sadly, the emptiness he left her with. Marilyn hadn't realized until now how lonely the bed was when she was the only one in it.
"I should make breakfast," he said, sounding like someone who'd utterly lost what he had set out to do only moments ago. Oliver's eyes looked her over. "Are you… hungry?"
They locked eyes for what seemed like forever.
"I am," she responded at last. He smiled (god, was he handsome when he smiled) and nodded, a reassuring little action.
"Good," the doctor murmured, "good. I'll only be a few minutes." His eyes flicked to the heavy iron chain at her ankle; he turned and hurried away, tucking the ends of his dress shirt back into his pants as he ascended the stairs.
There will be other opportunities, Marilyn told herself, but the voice in her head seemed weak and unsure of itself. There will be other chances. You haven't lost yet.
But she was beginning to wonder if, perhaps, she had.