Se7en

by Sky Corgan

  “Oh my God.” I come, all my muscles clenching at once.

  “Oh fuck yeah.” Chandler's eyes roll to the back of his head, and he slows his bucking, savoring the feeling of my contractions.

  As if to reward me further, he pulls out of my ass and shoves his cock back into my pussy for the remainder of my climax. It's absolute heaven.

  “Thank you, sir,” I breathe, lost in the afterglow of my orgasm.

  He waits until my contractions have subsided before he repositions me again, allowing me to close my legs and lie on my side. It's the most comfortable I've been since we came in here, not having to strain in any way.

  “Please put it in me.” I give him a seductive look as he lines up behind me.

  “You want my cock?” He smirks.

  “Yes.” I nod.

  “Is this pussy all mine?” Chandler slaps my ass and pain blooms across my skin.

  “No one else's.” I wet my lips with my tongue, feeling like all my natural lubrication has gone between my legs.

  He slides into me with ease, resting his hands on my waist as he begins thrusting. The pressure of having my body folded feels exquisite. It must be good for him too because he moans lightly with each buck of his hips. I crane my neck to look at him, longing for eye contact, but he seems content to watch where we connect. His breathing quickly becomes ragged as he picks up the pace. I squeeze my muscles around him, having been with him enough to know what's coming. He is. Shortly.

  “Oh yeah, baby, just like that,” I tell him breathily, feeling my clit pulse from knowing he's about to climax.

  I keep my eyes locked on his face, wanting to watch him come. A few more quick thrusts, and he's pulling out and shooting his pleasure onto my ass and pussy.

  To my surprise, he pushes into me again. The heat and wetness from his semen drives into me followed by a twinge of panic that he could get me pregnant. It's way too sexy for me to ruin the moment by arguing about it now, though.

  “Mm.” He bucks twice before pulling out and moving to untie me.

  I exhale deeply, knowing that our scene is over, waiting patiently for him to finish up so that I can get dressed. The sadness I felt from the end of our coupling the past two times seems a bit less today, perhaps because I know what's about to happen. As soon as I'm unbound, he's going to start getting dressed and we'll part ways, not to meet up again until dinner.

  “Are you alright?” he asks as he goes to find his clothes.

  “I'm fine,” I reply shortly. No permanent damage. Not to my body, at least.

  “So what did you think?” Chandler pulls his pants on and then reaches for his shirt.

  “It was...different.” To be honest, I still haven't processed everything yet. There were parts of the scene that I enjoyed a lot. Others not so much.

  “You have never done anything like that before?” He glances at me before straightening the shirt down his torso.

  “No.”

  I expect him to question me further, but he doesn't. Instead, he just walks past me to the door. “I'll see you at dinner.”

  “See you.” I nod to him before he leaves.

  Once he's gone, I blow out a deep breath and rub the back of my neck, planting my ass on the bed for a few minutes. This seems like it's becoming a routine. Fuck and recover. It bothers me that I feel so great when we're together yet so empty afterward. The yearning for him is still there, but his leaving is a cold reality that what I want from him is never going to happen. This is just sex. Just his little art project. I'm a tool which he's using to make his next creation. Nothing more.

  I don't bother getting dressed. I simply grab my clothes and walk down the hall to my room naked, not caring if Susan comes out. I don't expect her to emerge. She's probably gone into hiding now that she knows I'm her responsibility. Chandler's words from yesterday ring in my mind about how she's supposed to help me with anything I need. When I brought up that she was a no-show, he didn't seem the least bit concerned. Sometimes I think he just doesn't care about me at all.

  You're a tool. Nothing more. Those words sting, but they're starting to feel truer the more time that passes.

  I take a bath and curl up in bed, resigning myself to sleep. There's not much to do here anyway. When I wake, I put on clothes and go raid the kitchen. Lunch seems to always be sandwiches. Susan has been setting them out for me in the dining room, but I never see her.

  Thankfully, the kitchen isn't off limits. Not satisfied with today's offering of tuna on rye, I rummage through the refrigerator and cabinets.

  Chandler was right, it's fully stocked with just about everything you can imagine. I make myself a grilled cheese sandwich with the assortment of cheeses available. It looks far better than it tastes.

  I decide to leave the dishes for Susan to do later. If she's not going to wait on me like she's supposed to, she can at least clean up my mess. It's a bitchy thing to do. After all, it's not like I don't have copious amounts of time to clean up after myself. But I get some smug satisfaction out of being mean to her.

  After eating, I mix myself a cocktail with the liquor from one of the cabinets and go out to sit on the deck. It's highly unlikely that Chandler will need me again today, so there's no reason why I can't catch a buzz. Besides, it will help to relax me and make me feel less imprisoned here.

  I hang out on the deck for countless hours, sipping my drink until the sun sets and I see the lights from inside the house shining down on me. I catch a glimpse of Susan on her way to the kitchen, and I smirk to myself. If she's pissed that I left her extra work, she doesn't come out and confront me about it. Maybe she'll bring it up during dinner. I doubt it, though.

  Finally, it's time to come in.

  I arrive for dinner early, sitting patiently while Susan puts plates of food in front of me. She never mentions the dishes.

  “How long have you known Chandler?” I ask, trying to get something out of her. Her dark eyes meet mine for a moment before she continues her work, ignoring me. Bitch. I know she heard me. Maybe this is how she's getting back at me for the dishes. Silence seems a bit petty, though. “What is this stuff?” I gesture to the food. There's a plate of multi-colored rice with bits of chicken in it. There's a bowl of plain rice, and then another bowl with some orange sauce with chunks in it. Again, she doesn't respond.

  It's not until Chandler shows up and I ask the question again that I'm informed it's chicken biryani and chicken tikka masala.

  “She's very culturally diverse in her cooking,” I note. “The first night we had Japanese. Yesterday was French. Tonight is Indian food. Is tomorrow Italian?”

  “You'll just have to wait and see.” Chandler smiles as he takes a spoon and starts scooping rice onto his plate.

  I wait until he's served himself before I take my turn. “What do you do all day when you're not around?”

  “No questions.”

  It's starting to seem like his easy out answer, and it's quickly getting on my nerves. “It's hard to have a conversation when I'm not allowed to ask you things.”

  “You just have to ask me the right things.” He tears off a piece of naan bread and dips it in his tikka masala.

  “What are the right things?” I watch him stuff the bread into his mouth.

  “You'll know when you ask them,” he tells me once he's finished chewing.

  “You're very mysterious.” I sigh, trying to decide which I want to sample first, the biryani or the masala.

  “It's just my nature.” He digs into the biryani, eating like a man starved.

  “The theme of your exhibit—”

  “We're not going to talk about that.” He cuts me off with a wave of his hand.

  My jaw clenches as I try to figure out what's safe to discuss. Obviously, not his art. I can't help but ask the questions I desperately want answers to, though. “Is it all going to be nudes? Are people going to see us...having sex?”

  Chandler stops chewing, looking thoughtful for a moment. “I promise to paint you tas
tefully.”

  I had already figured out that the theme is sex-related. Why else would we be having so much of it? I just hope he doesn't do anything that I'll be embarrassed for my parents to see. I know they'll be getting free tickets to the exhibit along with me. I'm not sure I want them to go if all the images are going to be of Chandler sticking it to me. My father might try to kill him.

  “I'm not sure my parents should go to the exhibit.” My stomach twists as I think of everything that could possibly go wrong.

  “Why not?” Chandler starts piling his plate with seconds.

  “My dad owns a shotgun.” I screw my face.

  Chandler chuckles, sitting back for a moment. “Are you worried about my safety?”

  “He'd probably aim for your dick,” I add.

  “Well, with a shotgun, I imagine he'd hit a lot more than that.”

  The smirk he's wearing is so sexy that it causes forbidden feelings to well up inside of me. Just his tool, I have to remind myself.

  “You weren't worried about angry parents when you started this?” I scoop up a bite of chicken biryani with my spoon.

  “Why would I? You're a consenting adult. It's your body. You have a legal right to sign it away. This isn't about your parents, Emma. It's about you,” he says matter-of-factly, and it's clear to me that the concern never crossed his mind at all. “Would you like something to help you sleep after dinner?”

  I lock my gaze with his, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Does he know that I nap every day? I suppose he would since there are probably cameras in my room.

  “Susan made it too strong again last night,” I inform him. “I'd like to mix it myself tonight.”

  “I'll do it for you,” he offers, standing and balling his napkin up on top of the table. “A half dose, right?”

  “Yeah,” I reply hesitantly, wondering why he won't let me mix it myself. I want to ask, but I also don't want him to think that I don't trust him.

  I finish my meal while he disappears into the kitchen to make my cocktail. When he returns to me, I stare at the glass as he hands it over. The contents are clear, so I can't tell if he lowered the dosage or not.

  “Thanks,” I tell him, clasping the glass in both hands.

  “I suppose I should have delivered that to your room.” He says, looking down at the glass as if he wishes he could take it back from me.

  “I'll wait until I get to my room before I drink it.” I push my chair away from the table, getting ready to leave.

  “Sleep sweet tonight, Emma.” He smiles at me.

  As I walk down the hall, I can't take my eyes off of the glass. Once in my room, I give it a good whiff. It smells like water. The other ones did, too.

  I take a sip. It tastes like water, too. Flavorless. Odorless. What are they putting in this thing? No normal sleep medicine that I know of is both flavorless and odorless...unless it's a Rohypnol. Would Chandler really use a date rape drug to put me to sleep? Given the strange occurrences at night and my inability to fully wake up during them, it's the only thing I can come up with.

  And then the realization hits me that I don't trust Chandler. Why wouldn't he have let me mix it myself if it was normal sleep medicine? It just doesn't make sense.

  I know I won't sleep without it. But I also know that I requested a half dose and there's no way for me to tell what's actually in the glass.

  Learning from the previous two nights, I change into my nightshirt before deciding to drink the cocktail. Then I just drink half of it and pour the rest down the drain in the bathroom. If he decided to use a full dose on me, I can negate it by only drinking half.

  I sit on the side of the bed, waiting for the unnatural sleepiness to bowl me over. It seems to come on a lot more slowly than before and a lot less intense. I'm actually able to crawl under the covers and relax a little before the medicine lulls me into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “How did you sleep last night?” Chandler asks me at breakfast the next morning.

  “Well.” I didn't wake up to a dick in my pussy in the middle of the night like I have been since I got here. Maybe my over-drugged mind had been conjuring up the whole thing after all. Perhaps my desire for Chandler transcends my waking life. I don't know anymore. All I do know is that it was nice not waking up super groggy. My version of a half dose did the trick. “How did you sleep?”

  “It was a fitful night, I fear.” He frowns at his corned beef hash.

  “I'm sorry to hear that.” I dump some golden raisins and brown sugar into my oatmeal before lumping in some butter and giving it all a good stir. “Any reason you couldn't sleep?”

  “I just...worry,” Chandler hesitates, his voice full of concern.

  “About what?” I scoop a bite into my mouth. The oatmeal tastes like heaven, the perfect mix of sweet and savory.

  “About things.” He picks at his food but doesn't seem that hungry.

  “Ohhh, being Mr. Mysterious again, I see,” I tease, tired of trying to figure him out.

  “Last night's scene was intense,” he tells me as if I wasn't there. “I'm giving you the day off to recover.”

  “Boo. I'm fine. Really.” I look at him to show him I'm serious.

  “I'm giving you the day off,” he repeats more firmly. Obviously, it's not optional.

  “Alright,” I sigh, thinking about how boring my day is going to be. “Does this mean you're going to disappear all day again?”

  “I'll see you at dinner tonight.” Chandler stands, leaving his food almost untouched.

  His abrupt exit makes me worry that I might have upset him. Not half as much as he upset me by informing me that we're not going to fuck. I spent a good portion of the morning wondering what interesting experience he had planned for me today. The sex is the best part of being here next to spending time with him.

  Sulking, I take an extra long time finishing my oatmeal. With nothing else to do, I may as well drag out everything I do today. Chandler didn't even ask me to workout with him. It's as if he doesn't want to be around me today at all.

  Maybe he's just being considerate, I try to convince myself. I am sore from yesterday. My inner thighs ache from being spread so wide. My knees have carpet burn. My throat is still sore from having his dick crammed into my mouth for a short eternity. Perhaps I do need a full body rest for one day.

  Still, there's nothing else to do, so after breakfast, I head out onto the deck to workout by myself, following the routine that Chandler showed me. Maybe it will impress him to see that I'm sticking to it even though he gave me the day off. Perhaps if he's watching me on a screen somewhere right now, it will motivate him to come out and join me.

  I turn in the direction of one of the lights, wondering if there's a camera planted in it. “I'm going to get beefier than you if you don't get your butt out here.”

  It's a challenge that falls on deaf ears. Chandler never comes. I spend my morning alone on the deck, sweating away my misery.

  Not feeling like I have much bitch energy left, I eat the sandwich that Susan sets out for me for lunch. I even take my dish to the sink and wash it. Hell, I'd kill just to have someone to talk to. Maybe leaving those dirty dishes yesterday wasn't such a great idea. Perhaps I could have made friends with Susan instead of getting her to hate me. Oh well. I can't change the past. And there's no guarantee that doing the nice thing would have made her talk to me anyway.

  After lunch, I retire to my room to take a nap. As I lie in bed, I tell myself that I should think of this as a vacation. Where else am I going to get to just lie around and do nothing all day? A lot of people dream about a place like this with no outside stimulation. In truth, I kind of hate it. Aside from being with Chandler, I can't wait to return to the real world—to my friends and socialization and having things to do.

  I toss and turn for about an hour before sleep finally takes me, and I wake feeling even grumpier than I did when I laid down. I rub the sleep from my eyes, glancing at the clock. It's 3 PM. Five
more hours until dinner. Thinking about it makes me want to kill myself. What else is there to do besides drink? Being here might turn me into an alcoholic, and I'm not even legal in the United States yet.

  The second I throw my legs over the side of the bed, I hear a strange clicking sound. My head turns in the direction it came from, and I realize that the television has come on. A shiver rolls down my spine as I immediately think of ghosts. This is a brand new building, though, so that wouldn't make sense.

  I watch the screen, waiting for the image to display. I squint my eyes as if I'm seeing things wrong. Chandler is sitting in front of an easel. His brow is knit in concentration as he draws his brush across a canvas. The camera is mainly focused on his face, the art he's creating barely discernible.

  I grin, crawling back up onto the bed and folding my legs to watch. Is he giving me a glimpse into his world? Has he decided to turn the tables and let me watch him for a little while instead? This could be fascinating. I just wish I could see what he's working on, but I suppose that's part of the surprise. I'm not supposed to see his creations before they're complete. Getting to watch his process is somehow even more rewarding.

  The camera pans around, and I see Susan standing a few feet off in a trench coat and high heels. Her expression is so full of life that she's almost unrecognizable. And she's staring at Chandler with a hunger that makes my stomach twist with the first hints of jealousy. I know that look because I've looked at him the exact same way.

  She unbuttons the trench coat and slides it down over her shoulders, revealing a lacy black bralette and panties beneath.

  “Oh hell no.” I immediately reach for the remote. I don't give a shit what's about to happen between them. I'm done watching.

  I press the button to turn the television off, but it doesn't work. When I look back up, Susan is taking long strides towards Chandler. She places her hands on his knees, spinning his chair away from the canvas. Then she grabs the brush from his hand and drops it on the floor. He looks completely captivated by her. My heart throbs with pain.