Viscious

Plotting.

           I quiver at the sight of the devices in his arms. I don't understand the clear thing, the paddle is obvious. However, it is the roll of plastic that truly shakes me to the core. He has always used tarp or plastic for bodies in my experience here. Am I going to die? That's it. He disposed of mom, had time to think after my brilliant tactics failed and he us on to me. Perhaps now he intends to kill me and take another unsuspecting woman to be his unwilling love interest. He watches me with adoring eyes as I writhe in my horror. He enjoys this. He has said it so many times before and I know that I am not getting out of this.

         "You're crying." He says as he kneels by me and moves my hair away. "You must have been afraid I wasn't coming back. I wouldn't leave you that way, even if I was angry." He kicks his legs out and sits, pulling me across the closet floor to his lap. "You got me thinking last night, I really do need to lay low a while. Until everything clears and we get to the other house. That will be extremely tough, as I've gotten so accustomed to my thrills over the years.  I'll need a way to sate myself, and that will have to be through you I'm afraid."

          "Calm. Calm. No, you aren't going to die. I can tell by your little freak out that you are expecting to be killed. If ever I killed you, it would be because there was no other choice. I'm just going to hurt you here or there, to keep myself satisfied. It'll have to be somewhere others can't see so if Dallas returns with those papers he conveniently forgot, or we have to leave for errands or when we move you won't draw attention. That's where this comes in." He motions to the paddle on the floor. "I can beat your feet and ass with this, I can bring blood when I need it and nobody will see it. On days I don't  feel the need to bring blood, I have other humiliating and less volatile punishments. It'll progress your training as well as keep me content for a while."

           I stay silent. His mind is set, I know to argue would only entice him to use his devices sooner. He strokes my head and drapes an arm over me. I'm so chilled and tired that I sink into the warmth of his body and the touch. I mentally curse myself, but this is beyond my choosing. He seems off put by my lack of communication, but doesn't call me on it yet.

           "Creature is eating breakfast. I hear your stomach, Alina. I bet you would like some breakfast wouldn't you?" Yes. No, it's probably poisoned. Maybe I shluld eat it then. I don't engage.

           "You may have some. Do you want to make a deal for it?" Not on your life.

           "I don't care. Do whatever. You just do what you want anyways. Why should I concern myself when it is not up to me." I finally speak. My voice is creaky and hoarse, heavy with irritation.

           "You finally get it." He chuckles. I am confused. "Do you know how long it took the others to figure out the obvious?" I shake my head no. My concern about his mental state has just increased. I'm not mad about it, but I just blatantly gave attitude and now he is praising this? Just yesterday he was scolding me for every tiny detail. And now, my start mouth has actually worked to my advantage. This is what he wanted?

           "I missed you, but I owe you from yesterday. I'm going to give you five whips with this. Then I want to bathe you and put you in one of my shirts. After your shower, you can have breakfast, but only if you can step on the paddle. Nail side up. I want you to think about this. No deal, no food for however long I decide. More than breakfast rides on this."

          I'm not longer hungry. I no longer want a shower or out of this closet. Would he starve me to death? How long would I go without food? Does water depend on this too? I notice he does not untie me, but carries me out of the closet and into the room. I'm plopped onto the bed as he lays out his plastic below. He wouldn't want blood on his floors. My eyes are too sore and dry to cry anymore, even though I feel like I already am. If Bobbi could fight me after what he had done to her, I can handle five strikes of that paddle. It has nails. Could it be that much worse than the whip?