That's My Girl

When I wake, it's to a translucent curtain of brown hair in front of my eyes, where it has flopped over while I slept. The ropes are still there, I can feel them biting into the skin of my wrists and ankles. He is there, too, watching me silently, waiting for me to wake up.

"How are you feeling?" says he, reaching with a large, square hand to brush my hair out of my eyes.

I say, "Like I've been tied to a bed all night." But I smile.

He half-smiles, indulging me. "Glad you have such a healthy sense of humor this early in the morning."

He unties me and helps me to stand. My knees buckle as soon as my feet touch the floor, but he supports me, like he always does.

He stays with me while I pee, silent and serious. His face is almost always serious, but I know how kind he really is, and I smile. When I'm finished, he stands behind me to lend the support of his lean, strong body to my atrophied muscles while I wash my hands and face, brush my hair, brush my teeth and have a drink of water. Then it's right back to bed with me, where I lie down and remain still while he re-ties my wrists and ankles to the bedposts.

"You're so pretty," he tells me in a murmur as he binds me. "So round and soft." He pulls the knots tight, then moves his hands over my naked body, dry palms over dry skin, the brushing sound loud to my ears. He touches my ribcage, my stomach, my thighs–but not between my thighs; never there, where I ache for him the most. In the three weeks since we met, we have not yet made love. I arch up to him a little, smiling, eyes closed, hoping he will change his mind. He doesn't.

"Breakfast time," he says. I give him a reproachful look, and he favors me with a rare grin. He leaves the room, presumably to get the breakfast tray.

It has been this way for a little over three weeks. We only really got acquainted after he tied me up. I was resistant to the idea at first, but he was always gentle, always kind, and very insistent. I still don't know his name; we don't use them, names. They are unnecessary.

He brings back the breakfast tray. It's just corn flakes with sliced banana, because I don't get much exercise and I shouldn't have too much to eat. He feeds me spoonful after spoonful, interspersed with sips of orange juice, dabbing my mouth with a napkin periodically, as if I am a child. I eat silently, realizing I must appear wide-eyed and adoring, but I don't care. I am amazed by the way he moves, with slow dignity, quiet grace. His smooth face is sober and contemplative, his clear blue eyes watchful. He doesn't look like the kind of guy who would go in for this bondage thing; he wouldn't look out of place in a three piece suit at a Baptist church.

He wipes my mouth once more, offers me a final sip of juice, and then takes away the tray.

"I'll be back at lunch time to feed you," he says to me. I feel deeply grateful. He spends so much time on me. He has to get up very early to get his own breakfast so that he can feed me mine, and he takes time out of his lunch break to come home and feed me. I wish there was something I could do to help him. I'd love to clean his house, wash his clothes. But he is very insistent that I never get out of my bed unless he is here. I don't know why he still thinks I will leave him. I would never; not now. Not anymore.

I'm so lonely after he leaves. The room is dim and silent. There's not much to do; no television, the curtains drawn. I look around the familiar room, my territory. I sleep.

When I wake, I have to go to the bathroom again. He's in the house. I can tell he's been to check on me because the door has been moved since I fell asleep. If I do not breathe, I can hear sounds in the kitchen. If I do breathe, I can smell soup; Campbell's Vegetarian Vegetable. My stomach growls.

After a while, he brings a tray. There is a bowl of soup, a glass of milk, and a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich for lunch, on the sturdy melamine dishes he bought after I came to live here. The spoon in the bowl is plastic, too, from a camp mess set. Last time he let me use breakable dishes, I broke them. Last time I got metal silverware, I tried to stab him. Now I'm not allowed to use those anymore. I've given up trying to convince him that I'm all better now, and besides, I like my special dishes. He bought them just for me. They are my favorite color, just like the curtains and the new carpet.

"I'll bet you have to pee," he says, setting the tray down on the desk. I nod. He unties me and helps me stand, supports me, takes care of me. While I am peeing, he asks, "Did you miss me?"

"Yes, I did," I say.

"What did you miss most?"

"Talking. I was lonely," I confess while I'm cleaning myself up. "I wish you could stay here all the time and talk to me."

He helps me up to wash my hands, and then back to bed, where he ties me again, rather more snugly this time. Then he backs up and looks me over, watches me for a full minute, a strange expression on his face. I am confused.

"You know," he says finally, "your stock is down three points today." He keeps watching me.

I watch him, too, wondering if this is a test. I am baffled as to why he would bring up this piece of ancient history, this potsherd, a relic that means nothing to anyone anymore. Certainly, it's only been three weeks since he chloroformed me in the parking garage and carried me home with him in his Econoline van, but it may as well have been years. I am not a CEO anymore. I live here now, in my little room, on my four-post bed, and eat my meals off my special dishes with my special flatware. I have been good and am frequently rewarded, and whether I am good or not, I am always treated with gentleness and care.

"You don't care, do you?" he asks me finally, when I don't say anything.

I shake my head.

He smiles down at me. "Lo, how the mighty have fallen."

I must have failed the test. He must be disappointed in me. I am filled with horror; my face burns, my scalp crawls with it. "But I thought I was doing better. You said I was."

"You are, baby. You're just how I like you now."

I am so relieved, my eyes fill with tears. He sits in his chair by the bed, dabs at my eyes with a tissue, helps me blow my nose. He leans down and hugs me, his arms warm on my naked body, and he holds me until I am not scared anymore. Then he picks up the soup bowl.

"Could we...could we make love tonight?" I ask.

"We'll see," he says like always, and offers me a bite of soup. I open my mouth, and he feeds me. "That's my girl."