The florescent lights overhead flickered then buzzed to life. Lana stirred, shifted, moaned. The all-too familiar sound of metal clanking around her ankle made her shoot to a sitting position. She stared at the iron cuff in groggy disbelief as though she simply couldn't fathom its existence.
Soft footfalls down the steps drew her attention from the unforgiving chain that kept her bound to the bed.
"Wendy?" Lana called weakly, her voice dry and cracked around the edges.
Marilyn saw the sad sort of hope on the reporter's face drain as she moved into vision, her shock of blonde hair glaring in the harsh basement light and giving away that no, this was not the person she had been expecting.
"Oh, sweetheart," Marilyn murmured, "no."
Lana scrambled back against the headboard, the chain around her ankle clanking noisily.
"No..." The color had drained from her; she was sheet-white and sickly. "No, no, Wendy was here, she was..." Lana searched the room frantically. "WENDY!"
Marilyn settled gently on the edge of the bed and regarded her with wan sympathy.
"No, Lana," she said, careful, "that was me."
The reporter's eyes continued to dart around the dark basement, desperately seeking someone who simply wasn't there.
"Wendy?" she repeated, but this time her voice was small and frightened.
"Oh, sweetheart, I know," Marilyn comforted, beginning to stroke the damp hair around the reporter's pale face. "I know it's hard."
Lana seemed overcome with sadness; she tried to speak and couldn't, her words halted by the utter misery swallowing her whole.
"Oliver told me," Marilyn said in a tender hushed tone. "He said there's a down side to the drug. After all those good feelings, there's not much left in your brain but bad feelings. It's sort of like a... hangover."
Lana's lip trembled and Marilyn ran the pad of her thumb over her mouth, smiling.
"It'll pass," she assured her.
The other woman began to weep quietly.
Marilyn waited, patient, stroking Lana's dark stringy hair as she cried.
"You're not pregnant," she said flatly after a few moments.
Lana's tears began to ebb; she leaned away from Marilyn, glaring, her chest hitching with dry silent sobs.
The two women locked eyes, neither willing to back down.
"No," the reporter murmured at last, "but you are."
Marilyn stopped dead. The hand caressing Lana's locks fell still. Her stomach had dropped through the floor but she tried to remain calm.
"Why do you say that?" she asked stiffly.
Lana's quivering lips drew into a bitter, humorless smile.
"When I..." She struggled with the words as though the memories were slowly coming back to her, inch by inch. "When I felt... your breast. It was hard. Like mine were, when I was-"
She stopped abruptly and the smile faded.
"As long as we're comparing notes," Marilyn said, her mouth suddenly very dry, "Oliver told me you might be pregnant a few months ago. I haven't seen many women's hips beneath their dresses but yours was pretty smooth and flat last night to be expecting."
"Yeah, well." Lana grimaced a little as though there were a bad taste in her own mouth. "I did what I had to do."
Marilyn swallowed, but the action gave her no relief. She tried again and again but it was like swallowing sand.
"What did you do?" Marilyn wondered aloud, horrified, her hands absently twisting the bedsheets into tight little cords.
"You know what I did." Lana straightened like a warrior preparing for battle. "I couldn't bring a child into this world that was part of him, that monster-"
Marilyn felt her fingers tightening mercilessly around the sheets.
"Watch your mouth," she whispered. Another stiff moment of silence passed with them. "What did you do?"
"You can't get your hands on much in an asylum," Lana said in a somewhat frightening monotone. Her eyes had a strange faraway look to them. "I found a coat hanger-"
"Stop," Marilyn demanded, her stomach turning. She stood up from the bed abruptly and placed a palm on the hard bulge of her small belly. Lana regarded her with a kind of strange interest.
"You're thinking about it," she taunted.
"No!" Marilyn took a step away from the bed as though it would somehow protect her from the reporter's words. "Stop it, just... stop." She looked at the other woman coldly. "You're just mad because you hate me, but I made you come."
The other woman said nothing.
"I did," Marilyn insisted, vaguely aware of the predatory way she was baring her teeth. "I made you come, and it was good, and now that you remember you hate me for it."
"It's only natural," Lana said at last. Her face was almost sympathetic. "You know what he's capable of, and you're terrified, because now that's inside you."
"You stupid bitch," Marilyn hissed, stumbling for the stairs before what she heard could poison her further. "You should rot down here for what you've done, you deserve it!"
Lana's eyes narrowed as Marilyn's fingers touched the lightswitch, prepared to plunge her back into darkness.
"Okay," she said evenly, "okay... but let's think about what you deserve."
Marilyn did the only thing she could do. She flicked the switch and ran upstairs.
Oliver was shirtless in the kitchen cooking breakfast. She flung herself at him from behind, pressing her breasts against the smooth solid expanse of his back.
"Good morning," he said in a surprised tone, never taking his eyes from the french toast he was preparing.
"She's horrible," Marilyn whispered. She ran her hands over his firm chest and took solace in how strong he felt, how substantial, how hers.
"Who is?" Oliver pressed down on a piece of toast with his spatula; a quiet hissing sound filled the room. "Lana?"
"You know who I'm talking about," she snapped. "I checked on her like you asked and she said the most awful things. I hate her, Oliver."
"You seemed pretty fond of her last night," he said casually. A spark of anger ignited in her stomach; Marilyn shoved him away roughly and turned to the other corner of the kitchen to pout.
"I did that for you." She plopped in a chair at the dining table, her lower lip poking out sullenly. The soft hum of the pilot light stopped as the doctor clicked off the flame and turned to face her.
"You," Oliver murmured, his perfect mouth curling into a smile, "need to go back to bed."
Marilyn stared sulkily up at him, unmoving.
"I don't think you heard me," Thredson growled, and slipped towards her lightning-fast, scooping her from the dining room chair into his arms. He tossed her over his shoulder like a light bag of laundry. Against her will she let out a delighted scream.
"Oliver!" she cried, but he ignored her, carrying her wiggling body out of the kitchen and into the bedroom.
He threw her playfully onto the mattress of their king-size bed.
"My diagnosis," the doctor said, his voice a low husky thrill in her ears as he advanced on her, "is chronic nymphomania, only to be cured by excessive sexual activity."
"You're in quite a mood," Marilyn giggled. Oliver moved atop her in one fluid motion, his lithe body molding to hers as though it was meant to.
"I simply can't help myself." Thredson moved back slightly, taking her bare feet in his hands. She bit her lip as the doctor spread her legs, slowly, smiling as her soft secret parts were exposed to him beneath the hem of her black satin nightie.
"You're not distracting me," she said bravely.
Oliver's lips curled into a dark grin as if to say, 'oh no?'
He pressed a light, teasing kiss to the thin sensitive skin of her ankle. Marilyn swallowed and tried to pretend his touch didn't effect her.
"You're a dirty little girl," he whispered, and began moving his lips south, nipping and licking at the soft muscles on her calf.
The words caused a strange stir in her loins; Oliver had never taunted her before but for some reason his borderline insult made her feel as though she were doing something wrong, but in a deliciously bad way.
She had barely time to consider this when his mouth made its way to the tender flesh of her inner thigh. The doctor only had to graze his lips over her skin before Marilyn moaned aloud.
"Oliver," she begged helplessly, but he ignored her.
He trailed a slow path of kisses along her thigh, a place so near to her now throbbing sex, and she found herself nearly helpless in his hands. The heat and the wetness of his skilled slippery tongue were almost too much for her. She knew where he was heading and she couldn't wait.
"Oliver, please," Marilyn groaned, thrusting her hips upward. His strong fingers played absently at the crease where her knee met her calf.
"You want this," he mumbled, and though she couldn't see it she knew he was rock hard inside his soft Sunday morning pajama pants, saving it for the moment she was most wet and most wanting.
"Yes," she found herself saying, bucking her pelvis towards him again. Two strong hands circled her hips and held them down forcibly.
"You're a dirty girl," Oliver said again, and leaned towards her hot pulsing sex - but stopped several feet shy, licking his lips.
"God, Oliver, please," she sighed. Marilyn felt as though she were burning white-hot for him and could only communicate this with soft little scratches of her nails along his dark-furred forearms.
He exhaled lightly, his breath a scalding puff against the sensitive bundle of nerves between her legs.
"Tell me how bad you want it," he said, and his voice was tight with arousal; it became apparent to Marilyn he was struggling too, trying to maintain his own level of control.
"So badly," Marilyn whispered as she slowly lifted her hips towards his mouth. This time, he didn't pull away. "Oh Oliver, baby, I need you..." She raked her fingertips down the firm skin of his flat stomach and this time it was his turn to groan helplessly.
His mouth closed over the hot wet place between her legs, the tip of his tongue probing slowly along her slick folds.
Pleasure hit her in a sudden explosive burst. Marilyn whimpered, all thoughts of Lana and her cruel accusations miles away. The doctor had improved in skill since the last time he tried this as she lay bound and helpless in the basement; she could feel him tracing small delicate patterns across the areas that were most sensitive, driving her insistently towards the breaking point.
"Oh, baby," she mumbled, dragging her fingers through the thick dark hair of the head working feverishly between her thighs. "My baby..."
A low vibration thrummed through her throbbing sex as Oliver moaned softly into her.
She squirmed beneath his hands, whining, gripping his hair and tugging a little.
"I want you inside me," Marilyn said helplessly, suddenly slave to the way he was making her feel. Pregnancy seemed to make her entire body hum with sensitivity, and what's more Oliver seemed to be picking up on it - he was usually ravenous, but not quite this intense in his advances, nor nearly so vocal.
"Say it again," Oliver demanded, his words a soft puff of air against her privates.
"I want you," she whispered, and tilted his head from the space between her legs, forcing their eyes to meet, "inside me."
There was an animalistic growl as the doctor pounced on her, his lips capturing hers. She tasted herself on him - it was a strange foreign taste, one of slick sudden arousal, but she enjoyed it. He tugged his pajama bottoms down in a desperate one-handed motion.
Oliver's cock was as thick and rock hard as she had expected. It slipped inside her wet wanting sex with no resistance at all; the way he absolutely filled her to the hilt caused Marilyn to gasp breathlessly.
"Oh yes," she said, nearly incoherent.
He began to thrust his hips against hers, starting the hard and fast rhythm she knew he was most familiar with. On an impulse she took his lightly-stubbled face in her hands and made their eyes meet.
"Go slow," Marilyn whispered.
The request took him by surprise; he stopped altogether for a moment, his thick dark brows twisting together in a small frown.
She snatched the opportunity and began to move her hips in a leisurely rocking motion. The doctor's eyes drifted closed. After a short pause he followed her rhythm, pumping much slower now, drawing out each thrust carefully.
Marilyn found herself unable to stop the moans that fell from her lips as he filled her so completely and withdrew, again and again, a flower of pleasure blooming slowly between her legs, threatening to burst.
When Oliver opened his eyes the look in them was one she couldn't quite place; it was both distant and somehow warm. It was not a look she had seen before.
The doctor touched her face gently, running the pads of his fingers along the swell of her cheek.
"Marilyn," he began, and for some reason she pressed her lips against his in a passionate kiss, cutting off his words before he could say something she wasn't sure she was ready to hear.
Oliver whimpered as their tongues tangled once again and suddenly they were coming together, grasping for each other, bodies entwined in the way she suspected he simply couldn't get enough of.
When their orgasms subsided he pressed his forehead against hers, panting heavily. They remained this way in silence for a few moments, flesh on flesh, still connected at the hips, until Oliver rolled onto his side, breaking the connection at last.
"Still in a bad mood?" he asked, a little-boy smile tugging at his lips, clearly proud of himself.
"No," Marilyn admitted. She tugged the hem of the black satin nightie down over her hips and tried to ignore the warm pool of his seed between her legs.
The doctor touched the area just above her breasts with a quiet reverence.
"You really have such lovely skin," he whispered.
A cold chill rolled through her as she recalled the headlines plastered across every newspaper for months, the women found flayed and headless, those poor women.
How many times had she been that close to the same fate? It was something she simply couldn't consider. Not if she intended to keep what remained of her sanity.
Oliver pressed a tender kiss to her shoulder and leapt out of bed, tugging on his pajama pants.
"I should finish breakfast," he said brightly, unaware of the quiet storm brewing within her. "Then we'll see about Lana and her poor attitude."
Marilyn nodded because, really, there was nothing else she could do.
After french toast and eggs and ice cold orange juice they descended the stairs together, a picture-perfect couple spending Sunday morning visiting the women they kept prisoner in their basement.
Lana lay on her side, glaring into the flare of bright florescent light as they entered.
"Marilyn tells me you've been awfully rude to her," Oliver scolded, his still-playful tone masking something much darker underneath.
"Does she?" Lana asked in a monotone. Her weary brown eyes flicked to Marilyn, who lingered hesitantly near the workbench.
"Yes." He walked to the sink and began washing his hands. Even shirtless, barefoot, in his casual pajama pants, he moved with the precision and ease of a doctor. "Lana, I believe you know that your stay here rests solely - precariously, I might add - on your ability to stay in my good graces."
Lana stared at Marilyn. Neither spoke.
"I've turned a blind eye thus far to your frankly uncooperative nature but at a certain point, there must be consequences to your actions." The doctor dried his hands and reached towards the wall of shiny metal tools, trailing his fingertips over his collection.
"Do whatever you want," Lana said flatly. Her face was slack; she looked to Marilyn like someone who'd utterly given up. "I've been through it all, Oliver. Whatever you do to me next is just par for the course."
"Marilyn knows." He went on as though she hadn't said anything. "She knows there are rules, and there are punishments when those rules are broken."
"Does she?" Lana said again, and suddenly a humorless smile split her full lips.
That same cold chill began to spread through Marilyn's veins like icewater. Something was happening and it wasn't good.
"Yes," Oliver said thoughtfully, his back still to Lana as he gazed at his tools, considering each one in turn for the dark purpose in his brain. "She's-"
"She's pregnant, you know," Lana murmured.
The doctor's roving hand froze. Marilyn felt her guts plummet as though some trapdoor inside her had been tripped.
He turned to her, his brows knit in a worried, confused frown.
"Marilyn?" he said, and his voice was small.
"She hasn't told you," Lana continued, that strange dry smile still on her mouth, "because she wanted to get rid of it before you found out."
Oliver's face fell, his expression one of total heartbreak.
"No, baby, no, that's not true!" Marilyn scrambled for words though it felt like breakfast was at the back of her throat, ready to come up at any moment. She moved across the basement to take him in her arms but when she reached the workbench he seized her by the wrist, hard.
"You're not pregnant?" he demanded. He seemed to be struggling between both tears and fury.
"Well, I mean, no, yes... that part's true..." Her voice was shaky and she couldn't help but stammer through the fear that felt like it was overtaking her.
"How long?" The dark eyes that had held her in such reverence only minutes ago were now filled with disgust.
"I don't know, baby, a few months? Baby, please-" Marilyn reached for him with her free hand but the doctor shook her roughly by the wrist, keeping her at bay.
"You're just like her," Oliver accused bitterly. "You said you weren't but you are, you're just like the rest of them."
Her blood ran cold.
"No, I'm not," she whispered.
Lana watched from the bed, still smiling.
"You are." He shoved her away and stared, his shoulders heaving with emotion.
"I was going to tell you," Marilyn insisted. Her body felt on the verge of a full-blown anxiety attack but she tried desperately to maintain control. "I was, I just wanted - I was waiting for the right - where are you going?"
Oliver had turned on his heel and was climbing the stairs two at a time, leaving her in his wake.
"Oliver?" she called, her voice a high waver of utter panic, but he was already gone, and behind him the door's lock engaged in a solid final click.