Mansions

by Whitney Bianca

  He strokes himself harder, thrusting his fingers in my mouth in time. Then he growls out a gasp and he shoots hot ribbons of come all over the breasts he already worshipped. I bite down on his fingers and another explosion of come follows. I can feel him dripping thickly on my skin. He pulls his hand from my mouth and trails it through the mess on my chest. I don't wait for him to give me his fingers back – I grab his wrist and bring them to my mouth. I roll my tongue over his long fingers, sucking all of it down. Me and him.

  “What do I taste like?” he asks, his voice low and rough. I draw him out of my mouth slowly, relishing the way his bones feel under his skin.

  “You taste like me,” I say, when I get my voice back.

  “And what do you taste like?”

  “I taste like you.” I suck his fingers back into my mouth, closing my eyes as the last bit of his flavor slithers down my throat.

  “Fuck,” he breathes, his cock already swelling again. He climbs off of me, blessedly careful to not bump against my left leg as he lays on his side. My skin is so sensitive, I know any movement will hurt like a blinding zap of lightning to my brain. I need a minute to get my wits back around me. He takes his fingers back and runs them down his own chest. He stretches out beside me, and I can feel his eyes raking down my body. His come is cooling and drying and itching on my chest, but I make no move to clean it off.

  We lay in silence and I close my eyes. My muscles are twitching and shimmering, like the patterns that bright sunlight makes on a lake, but the pain is tolerable again. After awhile, I listen for his heartbeat in the silence again. It's strange – I'm not used to sleeping next to the same man for more than a night. I wonder how long he's planning on staying. I wonder if he owns this sumptuous prison. I wonder where we are. I wonder how long he's planning on keeping me. He may think he wants me now, but he's a spoiled asshole who's gotten what he wants his whole life. Forever is a long fucking time. I figure he'll get tired of me soon, and then he'll let me go back to my life. Whatever life I have left, that is. He'll go back to his wife. Maybe he'll let me go back to Jessica and she'll take care of me.

  Or maybe I'll throw myself out of the window and kill myself.

  I haven't completely given up on it.

  A low knock on the door interrupts the silence and I tense involuntarily. I reach for the sheet but he presses his hand flat to my stomach. I glance over at him and he shakes his head no. In the short time I've known him, I've learned just how much he likes to degrade me. He likes when the nurses see what he's done to me. He likes that I wear the evidence of his passion all over my tits. It's useless, so I don't bother fighting him. I shrug and lay my head back on the soft pillow, my nipples hardening as an unwelcome shiver of shame runs through me.

  Shame. My dear old friend.

  “Come in,” he says, his smooth voice carrying across the room. Irina, the youngest nurse and the most skittish, enters the room with a silver tray. The smell of food reaches me and my stomach clenches under his hand. I smell bacon and eggs and butter and cream. I swallow hard at the smell of the rich food. The aftershocks of the pain still make me nauseous. She darts her gaze to our naked bodies, tangled on the bed, and her eyes widen. “Put the tray next to the bed and take the old one away,” Dorian says, his voice bored. His eyes follow her movements in the room as he flexes his hand on my stomach. His touch soothes the nausea somehow, but I don't like how he's looking at her. It seems to take her forever to gather up the old tray, but finally, Finally, she hurries out of the room without another glance back at us. The door closes softly behind her and we're alone again.

  “I didn't like how you treat her,” I say.

  “Who? The little mouse?” he asks, furrowing his brows like he doesn't understand even though he does.

  “Her name is Irina and you should leave her alone. She's no match for you.”

  “And you are?” He runs his teeth over the curve of my shoulder. “What if I told you I've had her? That I've already made her get down on her knees and put her trembling little mouth to good use?”

  “Did you have Marketa, too?” I ask flippantly, even though the thought of young, innocent Irina sucking his cock makes me want to slap his smug face. I know he's teasing me, but I don't like it.

  “Marketa... the tough old broad?” he asks, then throws his head back and laughs. The sound is low and rich and I want to press my nose to his stubble covered Adam's apple and breathe deep. “I can honestly say the thought never crossed my mind. Hmm.” He pretends to think about it. “I bet her pussy tastes like borscht.” I purse my lips to keep from smiling at his stupid joke. He's disgusting and an asshole. He may be the best sex of my life, but he's also the devil incarnate.

  It's ridiculous that I have to keep reminding myself that.

  CHAPTER NINE

  There's at least two hundred peacocks printed on the wallpaper in my room. That's how many I've counted today, anyway. I have to close my eyes eventually, when they feel strained and dry. Then I lose my place and have to start all over again. I try not to think of him, but it's impossible because there's nothing else to think about.

  He hasn't returned for days. I've lost track of how many.

  Not that I'm counting.

  Every day in this place is long and boring. I pull myself to the edge of the bed and dangle my head over the side, playing a game I used to play as a girl. I wait for the blood to rush to my head and then I sit up before I pass out. When I was younger and stupider, I would stand on my head as my friends Isabelle and Laurel stood by. They would catch my legs when I passed out and began to fall. Then I would return the favor and we would laugh and laugh while our dizzy little heads swam.

  My first high, but not my last.

  Drugs were never my thing, thankfully. That was one bullet I dodged. If I'd had a taste for heroin like Laurel, I'd probably be dead already. No, my high of choice was always sex. If I was honest with myself, it probably started the first day I met Dorian. When he held me and raked his disgusting hands all over me, a feeling bloomed in me. A shameful, shimmering feeling.

  I didn't know what it was until I lost my virginity to Bennett Welsh, the father of one of my classmates. He pushed himself in me and suddenly it all made sense. Why my mother did what she did. Why my father remarried so quickly after her death. Why Dorian chased me under the willow tree. The whole world revolves on sex, and for a long time, I have too. I've gone from city to city, from lover to lover, trying to make sense of everything in my head.

  I suppose my lifestyle has finally come back to bite me on the ass.

  Now, I'm a rich man's plaything. My only job is to open my mouth and spread my thighs. I don't think I'll ever get used to it. When he's not around, I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing. Healing, I guess. I miss my camera, even though I have nothing to take pictures of. The room is big but the view doesn't change. There's only so many times you can look at a ceiling or a wall before you've memorized every crack and molding in the plaster. Every peacock.

  I drop onto my back again, letting my head hang over the floor. The pain is better today, but I have a feeling it's never going to fully go away. Pain has taken up permanent residence in my head, along with the shame and the lust and the darkness. Now that my mind is clear and I'm morphine-free, I can fully appreciate the predicament of my situation. My freedom is completely gone. I can't hop on a plane and escape. I can't photograph other people's tragedies and ignore my own. I can't fuck myself into oblivion.

  For the millionth time, I run down my mental list of ways to kill myself.

  Hang myself with the bed sheet. Break a glass or plate and slit my wrists. Throw myself out the window. Drown myself in the bath. Overdose on the illegal morphine Marketa brings in every morning.

  All of my options are problematic.

  I was too weak to keep up my hunger strike. That would have been the best way. I was stronger with the morphine. If Dorian hadn't returned and ruined it, it might have worked. But without food, my vision blurs a
nd my head starts to swim. The pressure builds inside my skull, bit by bit. I wonder what would happen if I closed my eyes and went to sleep went like this. Maybe I would never wake up. But then again, I probably would.

  I've gotten desperate.

  A low knock on the door interrupts my silly thoughts. I run my hand across the mattress and find the bedpost. I haul myself up to sitting, the muscles in my arm straining. My heart pounds in my ears as my blood rushes out of my head. Irina steps inside the room and gives me a small nod.

  “Miss Adrienne,” she says. “I have to change your bandages.” She's bolder around me when Dorian's not around. Both of us are more relaxed when he's not here. Marketa, however, only comes in the mornings, to check my blood pressure and stats. The other girl, Katya, I haven't seen in days. I scoot my ass to the end of the mattress, using my upper-body strength to move. Irina smiles shyly and grabs the gauze off of the bedside table.

  We don't speak as she unravels the compression bandages off my right leg. The gauze underneath is dotted with my dried blood. I lean forward, my curiosity finally getting the better of me. I haven't looked at myself since before the explosion and I know I have to come to terms with what I look like now. As she removes the gauze, I wince as it catches on my wound, and then I'm bare. The skin of my stump is paler than the rest of my leg and mottled. A sutured flap of skin covers the end of the bone. The seam of skin leaks blood and a clear liquid.

  I take a deep breath.

  “You are healing nicely,” Irina says softly as she wraps the clean gauze around my leg. “How is the pain?” She says the same thing everyday and I wonder how much English she knows. Unfortunately, I only know a few words in Ukrainian. I don't respond, just watch as she moves on to the left leg. Now that I know what to expect, it's not so bad when I take a look at my other stump. “Medicine?” she whispers as she finishes, like Dorian will hear her. 'Medicine' is her simplistic code word for morphine.

  “No,” I shake my head resolutely. She nods, eyes wide, balling up the used gauze in her rubber-gloved hands. She doesn't approve, but she doesn't argue. “Thank you, Irina,” I say in Ukrainian. She dips her head and I smile back at her. She's the only friend I have, really. This is the most I've spoken to anyone all day, other than a 'thank you' when she brought my breakfast.

  “You do exercise today?” she asks, lifting her gray eyes to meet mine. I nod. Of course, I did my exercises. Nothing else to do. I do them two, three times a day. I stretch my muscles to keep them from wasting away, although I don't know why I bother. Eventually, I'll be completely healed but I'll still be in the same predicament.

  “Read anything good lately?” I ask her. She lifts an eyebrow in confusion. “Books? Anything good?”

  “Ah! Books. I bring you books.” She nods and turns to go, like she can't wait to get away from me.

  “Wait,” I say, leaning forward. She stops and glances back over her shoulder. Then, I notice her eyes tick up to the upper right corner of the room. I resist the urge to look, even though I want to know what she's seeing. “Where are the books?” I ask, watching her eyes. “Is there a library?” Her eyes move toward the corner again.

  “I bring you books,” she repeats and I notice her face is flushed. She's scared. I nod and let her off the hook. She hurries out of the room and shuts the door behind her. I scoot forward on the bed and grab the bedpost so I don't fall off. I still haven't gotten used to my new body, and it's easy to lose my balance. I let my legs dangle off the end, like I don't have a care in the world. Then I start to search.

  My eyes run over all the moldings. There's a window adjacent to the corner, covered in heavy velvet curtains. A slit of light escapes from the edge. I narrow my eyes, trying to see through the shadows. And then I see it. A tiny pinprick of blinking green light attached to a small black camera. So small I never probably would've seen it unless I was looking for it. I angle myself so that I face the camera. I stare at it for a good long while, knowing that he's watching me watch him. I'm so lonely that it's almost comforting to know he's there.

  Even though I hate him.

  I think for a long time about what I want to say to him. The more I think about it, the more I know the one thing I really want more than anything else is freedom. Even if it's just a semblance of freedom.

  “Wheelchair,” I say, looking directly at the lens, and him. “I want a wheelchair.”

  Three days later when I wake up, there's a shiny black wheelchair by the side of the bed, waiting just for me.

  *****

  She likes my present.

  I watch her figure out how to get into the wheelchair. She doesn't wait for help. She just does it. She almost falls when the chair gets away from her, but she doesn't. She rights herself and then she uses her arms to pull herself into it. I can see how she's breathing hard at the exertion. She sits in the chair for awhile, a big smile on her face like she's won a major race. She's proud of herself.

  She runs her palms over the wheels and then pulls forward. She moves around the bed, inch by inch.

  I wait for her to realize that she's still stuck.

  I've given her a gift, but it has its limitations. I'm still the only one who can give her freedom and I have no intentions of doing so. As I watch her maneuver around the room, it's my turn to smile. I know she's about to figure it out. She makes her way to the door. It's a graceful, big doorway and the chair can fit through. Hope is within reach. She inches forward until her knee bump the door. Then she reaches for the knob and turns it.

  It's locked.

  She leans forward and yanks on it, but it doesn't budge. She tries again and doesn't have any more success the second time. Finally, she sits back and clenches her hands on her thighs in frustration. She glances up at me and I can't help but smile wider. She's angry with me, but I'm okay with that. I like seeing her angry. It means she has her fighting spirit back. She looks healthier than the last time I held her in my arms. Her tits are practically bursting from the chemise that was made for my less endowed wife. Her face has softened a bit. Her hair is getting longer. It almost brushes her shoulders now. I want to twist my hand in the dark strands and yank hard.

  It's been too long since I've visited her.

  A trip to China came up that I couldn't get out of. Then endless obligations with Selene – the mayor's birthday party and then the Founder's Ball on Governor's Island. I don't want to rock the boat just yet. My life with Selene is built on a shaky foundation of just the right combination of secrecy and openness. Selene doesn't know about my business, but she does know about Cora, the mistress I keep in Tribeca. She's under no illusions that I'm faithful. Ours is not a marriage built on affection or soft feelings. It's a marriage of convenience and appearances. I do still fuck my wife occasionally, but it's not high on my list of priorities. As long as she's kept in designer clothes and in million-dollar estates, she stays out of my hair.

  However, Selene can't know about Adrienne. No one can.

  I know my obsession with Adrienne is dangerous. She could completely upend the tenuous balance that I maintain in my life. I crave her company and it feels like a constant, nagging hunger in the pit of my stomach. No one else satisfies me. I have to keep her upstate for now, which is not convenient for me. When I want a quick fuck, I don't have time to drive two hours for it. Eventually, when she's well, I'll move Adrienne to the city. But first, I'll have to find an apartment that's secure enough to keep her. I'll have to figure out a way to keep her locked down and hidden away.

  I make a mental note to have Bryan begin the search for a suitable apartment for Adrienne, maybe downtown or in Brooklyn. One that I can secure like Fort Knox. With enough money, anything is possible in this city. I watch as she rolls around the bed and to the first window. She throws open the heavy curtains and leans forward, the late morning sun lighting up her face in a beautiful way. Even on the shitty live feed from the camera, I can see how otherworldly her face is. She's ethereal. Perfect. I trace the shape of her face with my fin
gertip on the screen of my iPad. My mood darkens as my dick hardens. I want her, but I can't have her yet and the cold-hard fact of it pisses me off.

  She tries to throw open the window and I almost chuckle. The windows are nailed shut. Her bedroom is on the second floor and I'm not taking any chances with her safety. She slams her elbows on the sill and stares out. I wonder what she's thinking. I bet she's cursing me in several different languages inside her head. Sure enough, after a moment she turns her head and looks dead at me. Then she raises her hand and gives me the finger.

  I can't help but laugh then.

  I think she would most definitely like Brooklyn. I'll get her a place with a view of the bridge and the city. She'll like having a view like that, I decide.

  “Sir,” Bryan says as he enters my office, a white envelope in his hands. I glance up and nod in acknowledgement. “Finally received the package you've been waiting for.” He holds up a padded, medium-sized envelope and I raise an eyebrow.

  “That's it?”

  “That's it.” He sets the envelope on my desk and stands back, crossing his arms. I drop my eyes back to the screen in front of me and watch as Adrienne rolls to the next window and tries to open it. Same results. If nothing else, she's stubborn. I resist the urge to smile in front of Bryan. After a few more seconds of watching her, I turn the iPad off and place it beside the envelope.

  “You're sure?” I turn to him and lean back in my chair.

  “Got our people to check the entire site. Other than the camera, that's the only trace of her,” Bryan says in his deep, rumbling voice. I know that he sifted through all the shit and body parts and wreckage because I asked him to. I know that what he says is true. “We had to wait on DNA tests to come back, hence the hold-up.” I nod again, setting my hand on top of the envelope. It's practically empty, but I can feel something hard and sharp near the bottom. “That all you need, sir?” Bryan asks, his face an emotionless mask.