by Poppet
He waits for me, giving me the gel soap again, saying, “Wash my back, it's easier if you do it for me.”
He turns, resting his arms against the wall, one leg relaxed, the other holding him in a slant. Squeezing gel into my palm and replacing the plastic bottle on the wire rack, I rub my palms together and do as he says, having to go on tiptoes to do it properly, kneading like he did to me, hoping he likes it.
I know I liked it.
He stands like that a long time, the water spraying us until I am positive I have washed every inch of his back. Taking my hands away I let the spray rinse them clean, “I'm done.”
“You have soft hands, kisa. Perfect hands.” The water shuts off and Mikah hands me a washcloth, showing me to pat off, then he grabs us towels, handing me one, saying when he steps out from behind me, briskly toweling himself dry, “What is your natural hair color?”
“Like yours,” I say, trying not to look at him all naked, still drying my hair.
“Tomorrow we'll go to the hairdresser and turn it back. I don't like you being fake, it's not the way God made you.”
“Okay Mikah,” I mumble, too weary to argue anymore. He hands me a toothbrush with paste on, turning away from me to brush his teeth, and I sit on the toilet lid to comb my hair with the brush poking out of my mouth, watching the muscles popping all over his back just by him brushing his teeth. His sides have deep shadows where the muscles flare. Maybe he was a gymnast?
Hanging my towel, forcing myself to not cringe and be ashamed, I go to my basin, seeing his eyes watching me in the mirror, but I drop my gaze, brushing my teeth, wondering why his toothbrush buzzes like that.
•
Mikah:
It's too good to be true. She knows nothing and will rely on me for everything. She has no friends to question her disappearance. I feel like Adam in the garden of Eden, showing Eve around, watching her awe and fascination at a new world she's never seen.
She's not had sex for ten years, it will be like taking her virginity all over again. It's effortless to smile, God will be pleased I found such a pure woman. It will be so easy to direct her in our ways, to be a good woman. I know I have done well. It's true what He says, that appearances are deceiving. From the outside looking in she seemed like a whore tempting men to spill their crop on barren ground, but she did what Foma told her to. She's a good girl, like she said.
We have two years per project, I know I have lots of time, but already she strives to meet me halfway, to compromise. My instincts were right to choose her, I have chosen well.
Stepping closer I show her the button on the toothbrush. “Switch it on.”
She drops it in the basin with a squeal, her hand instantly shaking, “Oh my god, it's – why did it do that?”
Lifting it I hand it back, bracing my arms either side of her, watching over her shoulder. “It cleans better. It's an electric toothbrush.”
She shakes her head, pointing to the foam, leaning over to spit into the basin, pressing her naked ass into my groin when she does. It's going to be very hard to keep my hands off her for the first month, but I have to do it. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity to take a woman-child and make her all mine, without question or fear or pain. It's rare, unheard of. She's naive and ignorant, and beautiful and mine. I've already isolated her and she didn't question it. She doesn't challenge me, and I like that in a woman.
Standing, wiping her mouth, she says, “You bought that for me today too? It's too much, Mikah.” She strokes the towel, fingering the thick pile like it's fragile jewelry.
Her parents must have been poor, and her life with Foma not much better. What did she think would happen, that we'd move in and sleep on cardboard? This is my home now and I expect it to have everything I'm accustomed to. Buying it all new was just fun, and watching her eyes boggle at the excursion was making me happy. She makes me feel like a king, her awe gives me a boner.
“It's just a toothbrush, kisa.” I smile, hanging my towel up, taking her by the hand and leading her to bed.
We all have psychological training, it's what makes us formidable. From what she told me her only association with men naked ended up brutalizing and traumatizing her. Doing this with her for a month or two will give her security, it will wear down that preformed immature opinion and replace it with the illusion of safety. Once she gets there, then I'll start to press for contact, but for now I'm going to use every weakness she has against her.
Flicking back the covers, I point, “Get in.”
While she scurries to hide her body under fresh linen I walk around the house, checking everything is closed and locked, switching off lights while collecting my cellphone, gun and wallet, putting them in the bedside drawer when I return to the bedroom. Big eyes stare at me with fear, I smile at them, enjoying her stress.
Climbing into bed I take the book out of the bedside drawer, packing the pillows against the headboard and getting comfortable, holding my arm out to her. “Come snuggle kisa, I will read the words, you follow them with me on the page, pointing to each one. Okay? Let's see how well you're doing. If you hear me say the words then you know what they are, and can become familiar with them on the page.”
She sits up, holding the duvet over her chest. “Now?”
“Yes now, this is our new routine. I'll read to you, and you follow the words with your finger.”
Polina looks up at me, her fear softening. “You're too kind, Mikah. I thought you were strange, but you're just … quiet in public.”
I nudge my head for her to close in and line my body with her naked heat, and she does. Cradling her against my shoulder with my free arm around her, she holds one side of the book open while I hold the other, and she points when I begin to read.
It's been a long day and soon her head grows heavy on my chest, her breath evening out and her finger no longer following the words, curled up against me like she was born to be there. I did give her a sedative with her cola, but she doesn't need to know that.
Pushing down the duvet, placing the book on the bedside table, I stare at her body so tight to mine, aching hard that what I've wanted for months is in my bed, already learning to trust me. I blow softly, watching her nipple extrude and poke into my skin, and the uncoiling desire clamps my balls, tingling the base of my shaft. I'm careful, so careful, wrapping her soft fingers around me, squeezing them so they hold me, spasming orgasm with the contact I've wanted for too long.
It's not inside her, but God will understand why this has to be done. Leaning my head I kiss her forehead, resting my cheekbone on her hair, breathing her in.
She's a child inside, in her mind, but she's a woman on the outside. I can't wait to introduce them to each other. Her reservations about men work in my favor. She's not even seen a man naked since she was a child. The way she watched me, it makes my blood sing. It's going to be so easy to get exactly what I want.
Kisha the kisa, my pussy.
Wiping away the evidence with tissues from the bedside table, dropping them in the trashcan underneath, I wrap my arms around her, falling asleep with a pink nipple in my palm and her skin on my lips.
~ Chapter 6 ~
I do not speak as I think, I do not think as I should,
and so it all goes on in helpless darkness
~ Frank Kafka
Mikah comes back inside, his eyes lighter, which I take as a sign of happiness.
“Everything okay?” I ask, setting his breakfast down, wondering who he was talking to on the phone.
Sitting, dropping his smokes and phone next to his coffee, he nods, hiding a smile, “Everything is good. God says I can keep you.”
I try not to laugh, ducking my head to pack the dishwasher while he eats, following his instructions and rinsing everything first. Never has cleaning been so easy, I do nothing but pack and unpack machines. Why do rich people complain when their life is so good?
“You talk to God on the telephone?” I ask, sitting with him, holding my coffee, watching him guzzle
the last of his bacon and eggs like a starving man.
He gives me a single nod. “Da.”
“Can I have his number too? I also want to phone God.”
Mikah gives me a naughty grin and it amazes me that he has a personality hiding under his blank stares. “Nyet, he only talks to men, that's why all his priests are men. What you wanna ask God, kisa?” My smile fades and I fiddle with the salt cellar, hoping I made enough food for his breakfast. I don't eat breakfast, I haven't for as long as I have memory. His big hand covers mine, halting me from fiddling with the glass container. “Polina, when I ask you a question you answer me.”
Still unable to look at him, I mumble, “I would ask him why he let Oleg destroy me.”
His big hand turns, catching my fingers, tugging my hand so I'm forced to lean, and dare to meet his eyes. “I spoke to God about that too, he gave me some disturbing information, kisa.”
“What information?”
I don't fight his hold on my hand, like he says, I belong to him now. So far he's nice, kind, and before breakfast so many bags of clothes arrived for me that I had too much choice, and made Mikah choose what I should wear to go to the hairdresser because just looking at the pretty clothes made me cry and get a bad headache. We're going after breakfast.
“Oleg knows Foma,” says Mikah, dropping a bomb on me.
“How do you know this?” I gasp, standing, tugging for my hand back.
“God told me. As soon as your hair is done I'm going to pay that hui (dick) a visit.”
I'm shaking, my coffee riding back up from my stomach and I drop in my chair the second he releases my hand, shaking my head, “It can't be. How does God know this?”
“What doesn't God know, kisa?” He pats his mouth with the napkin, sitting back and lifting his coffee now that breakfast is consumed, giving me a narrowed look. “This is good cooking, Polina. Do you do this every morning?”
“If you want me to.” I drop my focus, staring at his throat, watching when he sips and swallows, wondering what this is I'm feeling. Can you confuse gratitude and love? Worry and nerves for affection? Girls say they get nervous butterflies around boys, and I feel it with Mikah.
“I want you to. I like it when you take care of me, Polina. Do you like me taking care of you?”
Looking at my dress and new sandals, smelling the perfume he put on me, I nod. “It's very nice.”
Abandoning his mug he reaches his hands out, catching mine and resting them on the table together. “It's okay to be mine, kisa. I know you are afraid of men, but now those men should be afraid of me.”
“Are you a criminal?” I whisper, needing to know if he is a bad man.
“It depends. In God's eyes I'm a good man, a disciple who works for him, but to a wicked man I am God's avenging angel. I don't allow wicked women to go unpunished. But you don't need to worry, you're not a wicked woman, you're a good girl.”
“What if I've done something bad?” I whisper, peeking up at him, feeling his fingers tighten on mine.
“What did you do, Polina? Confess it to me now. There will be no secrets between us. Ever. You tell me everything or I'll punish you for lying through omission.”
“I …” I swallow hard, too afraid to look at him. “I stabbed a man.”
“When? Why?”
“He followed me from work, he tried to rip my clothes off. I panicked, I went banshee on him, but I ran away and never told no one. I didn't tell the police or the ambulance or nothing, I was too afraid they'd send me back to Oleg.”
“Where is your blade now, Polina?” he demands to know, his voice flatlining.
“Under the pillow.”
“You slept with a knife under your pillow? Don't you trust me?”
I meet his stare, feeling the accusation in his gaze, seeing his face go back to immobile and expressionless. “It's habit. I was afraid.”
“Last night, did I hurt you Polina? Did I touch you wrong? Did I not treat you well?”
Hanging my head, ashamed, I shake it, mumbling, “You were nice.”
“Ostyn, kisa.” (Chill out, kitten.)
But it's hard to when his chair scrapes back and he stands to loom over me, walking to my side of the table to lean both hands on the arms of my kitchen chair, hemming me in, drooping so his nose is in front of mine, his eyes at mine, so close I smell the coffee and grease on his mouth.
“Potselui menia,” he orders. (Kiss me.)
I stare at his lips, whispering, “Why?”
“Because you hurt my feelings and I expect you to kiss me better.”
“I never kissed a boy,” I mumble, trying to hold my breath, terror cracking my sanity.
He drops to his haunches in front of me, holding my legs, shaking his head. “What kind of world is it that you had sex so young but never got a kiss? No one kissed you? Not ever?”
“Papa,” I hiss, looking away, trying to strangle the tears before they show in my eyes.
Mikah stands so fast it makes my heart race, his softened expression going so wild I fear him. “Why do you say it like that? How did he kiss you, Polina?”
“I don't want to talk about it,” I whimper, trying to catch breath.
I scream when Mikah slams his hand on the table, “Tell me, Kisha!”
“With tongue, it was gross!” I scoot my chair back, standing and getting out of reach, cornered at the counter, shouting back, “You happy now, Mikah? You happy you know my disgusting secrets?”
“Come here,” he points to his toes.
“No.”
“Polina, I won't tell you twice. Come here,” he jabs his pointing finger to in front of him again.
I'm ready to piss myself I am so afraid right now, but shuffle, my stomach jumbling up like beans in a tin, rattling and hollow and wrong, standing where he says, afraid to look in his face so stare at his shirt. Today he wears a t-shirt, and it clings. Today he hung the whip on the back of the bedroom door. Today he seems more normal, but now I am anxious again.
He holds my face in his hands, tilting his head and pressing his lips on mine, so soft. Then he releases me, dropping his arms down, looking at me, “Was that so bad?”
I simply shake my head, no. My mouth is unhappy again, I feel it twisting down like my heart breaks some more.
“Chyort, Kisha. (Damn it, Kisha.) Not all men are fucked up like your papa and Oleg. You can't judge me when I've not done anything to hurt you. Only God is allowed to judge me.”
Reprimanded and miserable with guilt, I nod, stepping onto tiptoes, forced to hold onto him to keep my balance, I press my lips to his, dropping back down, “I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. I was wrong to be bad.”
“Would you like me to teach you to kiss?” he asks, dipping his head again to whisper it like a secret in my ear.
I'm afraid to say no, I know it's normal and people do it. Worried, I look up at his bleached blue eyes, whispering my fear, “Will it make me sick? It made me sick before. I puked something awful. Papa tasted so bad.”
He looks up, running his fingers through his hair like he's agitated, his posture slumping a bit. “Fuck, Polina. Your life fucked up your head. How can I teach you anything when what is normal makes you feel violated and sick? It's meant for pleasure, for bonding, it's an expression of love and affection, not this version of it you have in your head.”
Shaking his head he grabs my hand, pulling me with him to the bedroom, sitting with me on my side of the bed, pulling me onto his lap again, his hold loose and not angry. Like this we're almost the same height, and I wait, meek, wondering if I am in trouble for my fucked up head.
Reaching under my pillow he pulls out my switchblade, handing it to me. “We put this to bed now,” he states. “I'm going to kiss you, Polina. Don't fight me. Just feel it, smell me, taste me, you know I'm a clean freak, I won't taste disgusting like your drunken father.” He points at the knife. “If I hurt you, you can stab me. If I make you sick, go ahead and stab me. But if I'm good and kind and you like it, then you
will give me that knife and never sleep in bed with me with a weapon again. Understand?”
I nod, feeling the tears slip to rain on my cheek, trying to wash away my sins from the inside out.
Mikah cups my jaw with his hands, his thumbs reaching up past my ears to my eyes, the wrap of his fingers reaching the back of my head and holding me still. Then he runs his soft tongue over my bottom lip, pressing his lips gently to mine, slowly lining the seam of mine with his tongue until it slides in, and I clench so hard on my knife, the trembles beginning, squeezing my eyes shut.
When he sucks my bottom lip into his mouth it's so hot that I have to breathe, shaking a gasp into his mouth, tasting his residue, and it tastes like coffee and bacon. It's not stale and ugly. Keeping my eyes closed I breathe, forcing myself to compare. It's true, he doesn't stink like papa, no old sweat and puke, no brandy, no bad breath. His skin smells clean after he shaved, it's a nice smell, a very nice smell, and when he releases me I press my cheek to his, feeling the softness of it, inhaling the aroma of shaving gel. “You smell nice, Mikah.”
“So do you, kisa.”
His voice is deep again, and I wonder if it means I did bad? I didn't stab him, he can't be mad at me, can he?
“Did I make you sick?” I shake my head, so he holds out his hand. “Give me the knife. You don't need it in this house.”
Reluctant, I hand it over, my security, my life saver.
He tucks it in his back pocket, looking at me, “How was your first real kiss?”
“Okay,” I mumble, not knowing what a good kiss is. I don't know what normal is.
“Now you try. You kiss me, and see how I respond. Let me guide you, follow what I do, do it back, and see if you like it. Okay?”
My heart is thumping so hard my ribs hurt, but I nod, waiting.
“Kiss me, kisa. Lick my lip, suck it in, taste me with your own tongue, explore.”
Oh! I must do it. Shit.