Page 8 of In You

Please

Tamryn

Game Night

"Please let me wash up," I dare to whisper, keeping my eyes downcast lest he think I'm being too bold.

Stupid bitch. Why would you say that? Now he might hurt you…

I fight not to place my hand between my legs to alleviate the itch in the crease where my thighs meet my mound.

The Captor stands at the porcelain sink in the master bath, wiping a towel over his hair roughly, and then down his face, neck and chest. Clean from a shower, his skin flushes pink from the humidity of the room.

I take a small hand towel and wipe it over the vanity, collecting all the spray droplets and then place it to the side.

"No, Camilla. You know I enjoy your smell," the Captor says simply, wetting his toothbrush. He pauses, flicking his eyes to mine in the reflection of the rectangular mirror. "Is the lamb cooked?"

The clipped, warning tone of his voice causes a tremor of trepidation to shudder down my spine, and I lower my eyes demurely. "Yes, sir."

"Is it cooked right?" he asks in a stern tone.

"Yes, sir." I immediately abandon any thought of asking him for a bath.

His eyes leave mine, and as he puts the toothbrush in his mouth I swallow thickly, so desperate to clean myself that I'm tempted to take this towel I just cleaned the sink with and wipe between my legs.

He's fucked me every day for the past four days, and my smell has become more and more pungent. The uncomfortable itchiness is beginning to be unbearable.

I'm desperate for a shower, but due to the cameras in the one bathroom he allows me to use, I don't dare clean myself without permission.

I do my best to clean with toilet paper when I relieve my bladder, but at the threat of his retaliation, I take it no further.

Picking little bits of dried toilet paper from between my legs is humiliating and causes my sensitive skin to itch even further.

Silently, he points to my toothbrush, keeping his hard gaze on mine through the mirror.

I reroute my thoughts, forcing myself to be grateful he's letting me brush my teeth.

I do my business, then splash a little extra water on the vanity, and when I'm done I wipe everything down with the towel again.

I squeeze it, feeling it's half-damp. My mind races, thinking maybe I might be brave enough to defy him anyway.

If he leaves me by myself in this bathroom, that is. He spits and rinses his mouth, watching silently as I brush my teeth.

"And the mint sauce?" he enquires when I spit, his voice hard. I reach for the mouthwash, but he moves it smoothly away and places it in the cabinet.

"I made extra, just like you like," I reply in a small voice, blinking back tears.

"I don't want any shit from you tonight. I have a new daddy for our little girl, and I won't have you fucking this up for me. Do you understand me?"

I blink.

"I said do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir," I whisper, lowering my head once more.

He grabs his hair product dismissively and I fight back tears of sadness as he makes me watch him groom and refresh himself.

A pang of jealousy runs through me at the scent of his flagrantly warm skin.

The smell of eucalyptus lingers in the air from his body wash, and as he squirts the product into his hand, I have a flashback from when I was a teenager and upset about my father not being present in my life.

As he runs his hands through his hair, I close my eyes, remembering one of my cherished self-care routines from my life from before.

Eighteen Years Ago

Pressing my cheek into my pillow I sniff, wiping the back of my hand across my eyes as the tears run free.

The salt of it stings my lips that are so chapped from crying all week over not having anyone to take me to the daddy daughter dance this weekend.

I've had to listen to my eleven-year old classmates and friends for the last two weeks brag excitedly about going dress shopping with their mothers, and how they've been practicing dancing with their fathers.

Some are even going out to eat at the fancy new Italian restaurant before the dance. One friend's father even hired a limo to bring them. Said he "wants her to know what it's like to be treated like a princess," and all the talk has done nothing but highlight that I'm raised by an only mother.

An only mother who was an only child. So I have no uncle. My grandfather is dead, and I have no one to take me to the dance.

"Tamryn, darling," Momma says in a sing-song voice, rapping twice on my bedroom door.

I flop over on my side with a heart-wrenching, heavy sigh, showing her the misery on my face.

"Oh, darling," she says, her eyes turning sad as she walks into my bedroom and settles onto the purple comforter next to me.

Caressing her hand over my temple, she lovingly brushes a lock of deep brown curly hair behind my ear.

Grabbing my hand, she presses my knuckles to her lips.

"I have a surprise for you!" she says with a little giggle.

Her eyes, usually dark with exhaustion and worry, light up with happiness, affecting my own.

I give her a shaky smile as she wipes a tear from my cheek with her thumb. "Yeah? Another book?" I ask with excitement that chases away some of the sorrow. She'd been helping to grow my book collection of Edgar Allen Poe and Jane Austin.

My favorite poem is Annabelle Lee, about a woman who lives in a castle by the sea.

But instead of a book, momma surprised me with a spa trip that weekend. My very first one. She bought me a new pair of silk pajamas that were so unimaginably soft and decadent that I couldn't help but take that luxury with me into adulthood, buying all the silk nightgowns I could get my hands on.

We got a room at the spa for the night of the dance, and we spent the weekend getting mud baths, manicures, salt scrubs, facials, and massages.

For a brief moment I forgot all about the dance and it became a yearly thing for her and I, to take every holiday and special occasion and make it our very own.

But as the years went on I never forgot the lack of my father's presence, despite my mother's incessant attempts at distracting me at every which turn.

Overcompensating and working herself to the bone to make sure my every need was taken care of.

Working so hard that I became a latchkey kid at twelve so she could work ten to twelve hour overnight shifts at a car factory almost an hour and a half drive away.

That's when the grief came full force. In those hours I spent alone.

That's when I began to search for a way to fill this love within my heart that was lacking and empty, devoid of my father's presence. That's how, seventeen years later, I became so easily a victim of the Captor.

My need for love was stronger than my common sense.

Present

Maneuvering the last three months with my dominant hand in a cast and sling has been horrendous, highlighted even more so now that I'm pinning the last curl up with a bobby pin.

I check my teeth in the mirror, and scrub a rust colored front tooth with a square of toilet paper before blotting a little more of the lipstick away.

The Captor relented to me wearing makeup and a few spritzes of perfume tonight. I hate to admit it, but I feel spoiled. This is the first time he's let me wear makeup since he's brought me to his house.

Spraying setting spray on my face, I fan myself dry with my hand and smooth a finger over my brow, taming the hair there.

As well as not allowing me to wear makeup, he also hasn't let me arch my brows, and in the almost year that I've been here, my brows have grown in a lot.

Correcting how I used to over pluck them as a child.

It's the one feature in my face I actually like about myself.

Turning, I head into the kitchen, anxiously checking the rack of lamb in the warmer, and giving the reduction sauce a quick stir.

I'm busy fussing over the food at the stove so the Captor doesn't have a reason to beat me when his company leaves, when the doorbell rings, giving me pause.

I freeze completely, turning my head to look at the cracked door of the kitchen.

Heavy footsteps in the hallway cause every muscle to tense, locking up tight as the Captor makes the right into the foyer and opens the door.

At the sound of men's voices, and a hearty laugh, I put the spoon on a spoon rest and tiptoe to the doorway of the kitchen, peeking around the corner.

My eyes widen as two men come into view, bathed in the light of the two lamps which flank the long foyer table graced with a singular huge bouquet of flowers strictly there for the purpose of making this house seem normal.

Homey.

As does the soft jazz that filters from the living room.

But I know better. A homey abode this is not; it's a glorified prison, made up of four meticulously decorated spare bedrooms and a homemade dungeon off the finished rec room in the basement, draped in elegant beige paint and decorated with art from all over the world.

I have a half second where I debate screaming for help, but the tracker somewhere in my body keeps me quiet.

Even if I alert his two guests that I'm in trouble, he'll find me.

Hell, the guests themselves might be in on it.

This is the first time since I've been here that he's been comfortable enough with our situation to have people over, and it makes me wonder if that means he plans to share me, but I don't think so. He's awfully jealous.

I know that from my time from before.

Before he made me his.

I linger in the door of the kitchen, smoothing my palm down my knee length patterned blue dress.

It's sleeveless so I could get my cast through with no problem, and has white buttons up the front that the Captor had to do up for me.

It's snug, encases my waist perfectly, as well as my heavy breasts.

The dress cleverly hides every bruise and mark.

My cast itches, and I squirm, wishing the Captor had something long and thin in the kitchen I could stick in there to scratch.

As if my body decides that tonight it should be uncomfortable to the maximum amount, the space between my legs begins to burn and itch along with my arm, and I suck in a ragged breath, bringing a hand down to scratch harshly at the crease in my right thigh.

“Oh my god,” I breathe, blowing out a breath at the temporary relief.

God I wish I could take a bath.

Hearing them talk, I peek my head back timidly.

One of the men has sharp, brown eyes like a hawk, dark brown hair with a tiny smattering of salt throughout, an almost square, chiseled jaw with a slight beard.

Broad build, thick muscular thighs and torso.

Wide chest encased in a black button up shirt under a black, elegant jacket. Black watch, black leather dress shoes.

He's sharp, like I would imagine a professor would be. His English accent is clear, a bit thick and blunt with the way he speaks. Like warm molasses. Not quite solid, but not smooth like honey, either. He's handsome in a harsh, almost cruel way. Stoic looking.

That's what got you in trouble with Calvin, Tamryn. You thought he looked good too, and now look at you. Idiot.

The other man has sandy blonde hair, is about six inches shorter than the other guy, and about an inch taller than the Captor, and looks devoid of body hair. He's clean shaven like the Captor, not a smattering of hair on his arms, or the skin of his chest that peeks through the top two buttons.

He's the man with the hearty laugh, and has a perfect, white smile that makes slight laugh lines appear on his face.

He's familiar, but I can't place how I know him.

When the Captor turns his attention from him to shake hands with tall, dark, and handsome, the sandy haired man turns his head to catch me staring and gives me a grin and a wink. I roll my lips and back all the way into the kitchen and out of sight.

Curiosity has not been my friend, and something in the man's face cautions me to hold my tongue.

Their footsteps sound loud as they get closer to the kitchen and I dive for the refrigerator, grabbing the glass picture of cucumber and mint infused water, and slip as quietly as I can through the other doorway into the formal dining room to place it on the mahogany table.

It took me almost twenty minutes to buff it to perfection, so shiny you can see your reflection in it, and then it took me another half hour to set with one hand.

The Captor wanted nothing short of perfection for tonight, no matter what it cost me.

Trying to pull off a fancy, three course meal one handed while managing everything with my non-dominant hand felt like it's own brand of torture.

The muscles tense and spasm in my left hand as if to remind me of just how sore it is after the long day of pushing myself too far.

Did I mention the Captor won't let me have pain medicine?

Yeah, there's a heartbeat in my broken hand currently.

Just as I'm pouring water into the crystal water glasses, the men come into the room, the Captor right behind them holding the rack of lamb with two pot holders.

I lock eyes briefly with the dark haired man before he shifts his gaze away disinterested, and clashes with the Captor instead.

Though his face is uncharacteristically warm, gray eyes that I'd once thought were kind tell me another story.

It tells me that he'll kill me should I scream for help, or should I even hint that I'm not going to be on my best behavior.

I'll show him I can, I always do.