She starts to hum a song. It's faint and distorted by the time it breaches the cabin walls. But still, it stirs up a sense of a memory. I reach into the depths of my mind to recall the details, but I can't quite recollect.
She starts to talk to herself after she quits the song. She's been doing that more. Pacing back and forth, saying nonsense to herself sometimes. I can't quite hear her unless she's loud and in this case, she's not. But she's animated enough to make me laugh. I've been thinking about giving her things so she doesn't go crazy, but I'm still not sure I want to give her the power of entertaining herself yet. I like being her sole source for that. When I am certain I have her fully, I'll consider it.
I fall into the zone of watching—it's a calm, almost hypnotic state as the intrusive thoughts, which have been less frequent in the past few weeks, fade away when I view the mundane through an extraordinary lens.
But what she does next, violently rips me out of the trance. She sits in my chair—I call it that because despite me never stating she cannot, she never sits on it—and pulls her feet up, spreading her knees apart.
She pulls out one of her plump tits, tits I have feasted on so many times and yet still cannot get enough of—and massages it with one hand. She dips her head back, running her pink tongue along her lips, like an invitation, or a taunt.
She pulls up the little nightgown I made her to replace the one destroyed the night I chased her, exposing her shaven pussy, so I can see the pink wet lips, and begins to finger fuck herself.
I've watched many people masturbate. Usually they're quiet, save for a few climaxing moans, because there is no one to put on a show for. Until this point, I was certain she didn't know I was watching. But she's loud, her body fucking her hand vulgarly, as if she wants men to watch and jack off to her. The contrast of this lovely, innocent woman, so vulgarly fucking herself, simultaneously pisses me the fuck off and gives me an angry erection. She shouldn't be entertaining herself like this. I own that pussy. I own her sex, period. Yet she's finding a way to circumvent that.
“You sneaky little bitch,” I sneer under my breath.
Then she moans my name. Well, not Sam. But my alias, one that we stumbled upon the first time we fucked to completion. I'm not there and she's still fucking me. My rage converts to an almost emergent need to come with her, so I pull out my cock and grip it, biting back my own moans as I watch my handiwork: a woman reduced to just a few needs—me being one of them.
“Fuck me, fuck me!” she says as her hips rise up against the chair, her finger fumbling with her tanned nipple.
“Oh fuck, Vesp,” I grunt from my belly as my dick builds up to its precipice.
Her moans burst through the cabin walls as I move my hands faster to meet her, the cabin wall catching my cum. Though I wish it was her pussy or mouth, knowing I made her come without even being there is intensely gratifying. And yet, it's not enough. It never is. There's never enough sex. There have been days I fucked her four times, and then had to switch to her ass or mouth because her pussy was swollen from all the fucking. Yet, she's always ready for me. Always coming.
I fix myself, determined to go in there and give her a dose of the reality she's been fantasizing about. But first, I want to study her. She pulls down her dress, a glazed look in her eyes, as if she doesn't understand what's overtaken her.
Vesper stumbles to her feet and fixes herself, trying to erase the evidence of filth. She looks around suspiciously as though, perhaps, it was so immoral that God may have come down just to judge her. She takes a deep breath and runs her hands along her brow and passes them over her head with a great sigh.
“Woah,” she mouths. “I am so fucked.”
I laugh. She can be funny sometimes.
But then, seemingly out of nowhere, her facial expression changes. Instead of shock, confusion and disgust take over. She takes another deep breath, as if trying to settle something. Then she sprints over to the water closet, which I can't see from the peephole I'm using.
The twisted mix of relief and shame I feel after playing with myself to thoughts of my captor are eclipsed by sudden dizziness. The walls swirl around me, the floor moves under my feet.
He's trying to kill me. He's poisoned my breakfast.
My stomach cramps and I run to the miniature bathroom, sticking my finger down my throat, coaxing my meal out. My stomach is relieved instantly, but I break out in a cold sweat, terrified of what will come next. I slam the door, and sit with my back pressed against it, determined to never let Night in. I can't catch my breath as I gasp for air, gripped by a new kind of terror. I'm going to die. I know it. I just do. I had allowed myself to trust him, that if I gave him what I wanted, I would survive, but he's using the very key to my survival to kill me.