Three and a Half Weeks

by Lulu Astor

  Her huge sigh of relief added to the roar of blood rushing past her eardrums. So she was in a cardboard box but it wasn’t buried underground, thank God. So… where was she?

  The last thing she remembered was leaving her condo in the early morning. She’d been walking to her car… there was a rustle in the bushes that lined the walk… and that’s it, that’s the last thing. She must have been grabbed and taken somewhere. But where? And by whom?

  She prayed to a God she’d long ago scorned, that no matter how unlikely, it would be Ian’s handsome, angular face she would see when the box was opened, and not those of dead-eyed professional assassins. He’d warned her and she hadn’t listened. She didn’t think he had it in him.

  Apparently he did.

  She had no sense of time: it could have been minutes or hours before she began to hear noises outside her box. Things being moved, metal things, sliding things. Then her box was lifted and she could see the perforations in the cardboard now. For air. In the dark, they were invisible.

  She listened carefully to the sounds being made, deciding they were unloading a vehicle of some sort, a truck or even a boat possibly. Where had they taken her?

  A door opened and closed. The box stopped moving. Minutes later, she heard a boxcutter, slicing into the box and prayed it wouldn’t cut her. When the flaps were finally lifted, she was staring into four pairs of dark eyes.

  They were all men, and mean-looking. Assassins. Shit. She said nothing; they said nothing. Then she heard one of them say words, quickly, furiously. In a foreign language. Something guttural.

  Arabic, maybe?

  The voice was answered by a calm, commanding baritone, speaking Arabic, too, but making it sound much nicer. As soon as the second voice spoke, the four men put their hands under her, lifting her out of the box and standing her up. Her legs were wobbly. She was wearing the clothes they took her in—a cropped white tee shirt and a short black skirt— but was barefoot. Where were her shoes? She looked up when one yanked on her hair.

  He was tall and so dark: hair, skin, eyes. Black eyes. His hair was longish and straight, brushed back away from a noble looking face. He wore Western garb, exceedingly upscale; if pressed to guess, she’d wager the suit was Italian. Versace probably. But those eyes.

  She couldn’t tear hers away from them. They were as black as Satan’s soul… but they didn’t look mean. No, they looked… fascinated.

  His eyes never leaving hers, he said something else and the men began ripping her clothes from her body. She tried resisting but was quickly slapped across the face twice by one of the men who shouted the English word no at her. In seconds she stood before the man stark naked, with the others holding her arms down to prevent her from covering her body.

  He appraised her up and down for a long time and then spun his finger in a circle and they turned her around for him to check her over completely. When he was done, he simply nodded at the men. They lifted her up, one grabbing her wrists from behind and another her ankles and carried her down a hall to a room, handcuffed her wrists behind her back, and shoved her inside.

  She looked around. The room was painted with pale pink and white and there was a deep garnet red Persian carpet covering most of the wood floor. In one corner were two women staring at her. They were both dark, as everyone else she saw was dark. While she stood there trembling, one of the women walked over to her, grasped her elbow—neither gently nor roughly—and began leading her to a smaller room. Inside was a giant bathtub filled with scented water. The woman pointed to it and she stepped into it.

  “Down.” The second woman said in English. She obeyed. The water was hot, with steam rising above it, but it felt good to Natasha. The two women proceeded to bathe her and wash her hair. The scented soaps they used smelled like sandalwood and revived her senses somewhat after being sensory deprived in that box. After, they dried her thoroughly, they removed her cuffs, placed her on a table, and proceeded to wax off all of her body hair, every single part of her. When that torture was over, they brushed her teeth and her hair, sprayed her with scented oils, trimmed her fingernails to a very short length and buffed them. They put kohl on her eyes and gloss on her lips. Finally, they clipped soft leather cuffs on her wrists and ankles. Their final attention was to buckle a large leather collar around her throat, a collar attached to a chain leash. Like a dog.

  When they were done with her, they led her out of the room and up a wrought iron staircase, the steps made of white marble, icy to her bare feet. The women wore what looked like ballet slippers and had on strange garments, like something out of ancient Rome—toga-like outfits. They took her inside a door, to a luxuriously appointed room. In the center of the room was a huge bed. The bed had four posters; from each of which dangled a chain. Each wrist was clipped to a chain so that she sat in the center of the bed, her arms raised; her legs were left unrestrained. When she tried resisting, the larger woman pinched her viciously on her hip. A blindfold was slipped over her eyes. The last thing she heard before the door closed again was the strains of some kind of strange music beginning in every corner of the room.

  Her ears discerned a door open and close gently, followed by the click of his shoes moving across the hardwood floor before landing on the plush carpet. Abruptly, the volume of the music dropped, and a man’s deep, smooth voice spoke, directly in front of her.

  “Will you willingly obey your new master?” The words were spoken in clear, nearly unaccented English, it was the cultured voice from before, the man in authority.

  Hearing a civilized voice lulled her into a false sense of security, and feeling more empowered in the situation than she otherwise might have or should have, she licked her lips and got a mouthful of flavored gloss. “I do not have a master,” she responded.

  She heard it slice through the air immediately before she felt the lash viciously bite across her thigh. Behind her eyelids she saw a bright flash of white that accompanied the atrocious pain. She couldn’t contain the instinctive wail that escaped her throat.

  “Let’s try it again. Natasha, isn’t it?” His voice was so calm, as if he didn’t expend an iota of energy wielding the whip. Perhaps someone else was in the room beating her?

  He waited for her to respond and finally she nodded.

  “Please ensure your responses to my questions are audible. We don’t want any miscommunication between us, do we?”

  About to shake her head, she replied haltingly. “No… we do not.”

  “Very good. Now, I’ll ask you again, “Will you obey your master?”

  “May I ask who my master is? Because up until right this minute, I’ve never had a master. I’m not a slave.”

  “Yes, you may ask. I am your new master and it is in your best interests to address me accordingly and with appropriate deference for the disparity in our rank. From one day to the next, your status in the world has plummeted considerably. You are no longer a free and autonomous American woman. You are now my enslaved concubine, here to satisfy my every fancy. Your entire life will be subject to my whim and pleasure: every little detail. I will decide when you eat, sleep, use the bathroom, speak, walk—everything. The sooner you accept that, the better. Until that happens, you will be kept in chains and under lock and key.

  “Personally, I don’t care for the word slave. It has such negative connotations, don’t you think? Instead, we’ll just agree that you are here to satisfy my every want and need. If you do that—and I assure you that you will—I will satisfy your every want and need. Ours will be a reciprocal arrangement, if unequal. Do you understand now?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  The whip slashed through the air right past her ear, and cut across her left hip. Again, she shrieked in pain.

  “Either I was unclear in my instruction or you are slow to learn. Allow me to repeat myself: you will ensure that you address me as your master with proper deference for my higher-ranking position. Again, I’ll ask, do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mast
er, I understand.” She spat out the term contemptuously, furious that he would subjugate her to such a depth. She could easily take a knife to his throat and make short work of him.

  Aziz just as easily could identify the rebellion in her tone. Raising his voice, he barked an order and she heard the door open. The next thing she knew, she was unchained and lifted off the bed, her arms were raised and she was tethered by her wrists to something hanging from the ceiling, in an uncomfortable standing position, her feet barely touching the floor. It pulled on her body, making her shoulders and neck burn and throb unless she stood on her toes, in which case her calves would soon become strained. She knew this position was standard in any kind of physical subjugation.

  The voice spoke up again. “Some people need incentive to learn how to behave. I believe you’re one of them, Natasha. You display resistance toward accepting your new status quo. It’s not that I am unsympathetic, but my priority is in securing your acceptance as quickly as possible so we could begin to enjoy one another’s company. If you require incentive to reach that point, I’m more than willing to provide it to you.”

  She knew a beating was on its way so she attempted damage control. “Yes, Master, I understand. I’m sorry.” She used her most contrite tone of voice.

  It was too little, too late.

  The whip that she couldn’t see coming rained down hard and fast on her body: he slashed her stomach and the front of her thighs before walking behind her and loosing a volley of pain on her shoulders, backside, and thighs. Each stroke seemed to bite harder than the last so that when he got to her ankles, the force behind the blows was unspeakably horrific. She twisted and turned in futile attempts to evade the whip but each time it found her, landing squarely on whatever body part he targeted. She had barely any purchase to take evasive action and in any case, she couldn’t see where the whip was coming from, being blindfolded. Natasha quickly decided that death might be preferable to enduring this level of pain. Her body was slick with sweat and probably blood, too, and she screamed so much, she’d lost much of her voice.

  She tried kicking him twice when she thought she knew his position but each time she raised her leg, bringing her knee to her chest to strike, he struck the sole of her foot with the unerring whip. The pain seemed to shortcircuit her respiration: the oxygen she’d inhaled caught in her throat, and saliva aspirated into her airway, choking her. While she was choking, he continued to beat her, mercilessly, relentlessly. Now her feet felt like they were held to fire and she couldn’t bear to stand on them but when on her toes, her calves were stretched into unendurable agony. Her entire existence became her pain—no color, or texture, or shape. Only blinding white pain shocking through her brain and the crack of the whip resounding in her ears.

  How long it went on, Natasha couldn’t say. She was barely conscious when it stopped but within that sliver of her mind that remained cognizant, she felt a colossal relief when it finally ceased and she was still alive. The room fell silent except for her sobbing breaths.

  Hands untied her wrists and lifted her again, their gripping fingers causing her welted skin to shrink back in agonizing pain from the contact. She was deposited on the bed, and she quickly rolled on her side to avoid aggravating the lacerated flesh. Wrists and ankles were secured and the blindfold was removed. He was standing at the foot of the bed, the man with the black eyes. His two brawny henchmen who had lifted her, retreated from the room like ghosts. Natasha didn’t see the offending whip.

  “Who beat me?” She could barely make her voice audible, it was so hoarse from her screaming.

  “I am your master; my hand will be the one to beat you. No one else.”

  For several minutes she eyed him from her unmoving position on the bed, saying nothing. It seemed impossible to unnerve this man. Finally she broke the self-imposed silence.

  “You’re not even out of breath.” It was a question framed as a statement, lest he take offense.

  His face was an impervious mask. “I never show weakness.”

  Above all, Natasha was a survivor and she didn’t like showing weakness either. If she were alone in the room, she’d surely be weeping hysterically at the burning, screaming agony of her abused skin and the inescapable consequences of her sins. Instead she lay quietly, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t yet understand what is required of me nor if I’m allowed to ask questions.”

  “I’ve already informed you of all you need to know. However, I’m a kind master so I shall entertain the notion of satisfying your curiosity. Ask what you will and if you receive an answer, consider yourself fortunate.”

  She made an effort to clear her throat but it was so raw she aborted the attempt. “Why am I here?”

  “You are here as a result of your own actions. However, I will say that the party you probably think is responsible for your situation is not.”

  “Then who is?”

  No answer.

  “Does anyone know where I am?”

  “No.”

  “Not even the responsible person?”

  Silence.

  She tried to lick her lips but her mouth was parched. “May I have some water?”

  He nodded and walked into another room, possibly a bathroom, returning with a bottle of chilled spring water. It was a brand she recognized.

  “I don’t want you becoming ill from drinking the water here so I imported this bottled water from the States for you.” He untied her wrists so she could sit up and drink.

  “Thank you,” she said, wincing from the bed’s contact with her ripped skin but still reaching for the water, and saw the annoyed look on his face. “Master,” she said hurriedly. “Thank you, Master.”

  He smiled.

  “Where is here?”

  No answer.

  She kept trying. “The… person you mentioned, the one I would think responsible is going to be held to account for my… disappearance… by my family. He is the one they will seek to revenge me. May I call my mother to tell her I’m alive and that he is not responsible?”

  “Our friend can take care of himself, Natasha. Though he was not responsible for your new life, he has been made aware of what has occurred. He will understand the ramifications and will take the necessary precautions. Now, having said that, I never want to hear another word from your lips about him or anyone else. I am the only one who matters to you from here on in. I am a very jealous man, Natasha, and you belong to me in every way possible. Am I crystal clear?”

  “Yes, Master, you are crystal clear.” In her foggy state of mind, Natasha yet found it amazing how easily the term now came to her lips. She was taught from a young age to be adaptable to her circumstances. It proved useful in her current situation.

  “Good. I think our first session together went well. I will have the women visit you to see to your comfort and needs. I will be returning in a few hours. Please spend the time thinking about what you can do to please me.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Until then.” He strode out the door and moments later, the two women returned. They gingerly lifted her from the bed and brought her to a bathroom, placing her in the middle of the floor over a drain. It was a wet room with the large rainfall showerhead directly above her head. One of the women reached toward the spigot and turned it on. Tepid water, more cool than warm sprayed out and it both hurt and felt good on Natasha’s abraded skin.

  “My name is Mena,” the bolder one said. “We will make you feel better.”

  Natasha nodded, exhausted from the beating. After they gently washed her, they left her standing while their hands worked industriously, slathering cream all over the angry red welts. When the cream touched the broken skin, it exacerbated her agony and she whinnied in pain. The quieter one went out and shortly returned with Natasha’s half-finished bottle of water and two white pills.

  “Master said to give you these for your pain,” she said and handed over both.

  Natasha swallowed the pills with the water, no longer carin
g if they were pain relievers or poison. Either way, they’d help.

  She couldn’t be sure how much time had passed for no visible windows were apparent in the rooms, hence, no daylight. She assumed there were windows behind what looked like heavy velvet and Dupioni silk drapery. Regardless, Natasha had fallen asleep shortly after the women had brought her back to the bed. They cuffed her wrists and ankles together so she had limited movement. Luckily for her, she’d been able to keep to her side and avoid adding more discomfort. The pills she’d been given had dulled the sharpness of the pain to the point where it was tolerable.

  He didn’t knock: he just opened the door and walked in. She’d awakened about twenty minutes earlier and drank some water left by the bed for her. His black eyes, animated by God knows what, watched her intently. She tried to separate herself from the horror he was connected with and assess him. Physically, he was very handsome: relatively tall, lean, with chiseled features. He did not resemble a man who had to kidnap women for any reason. The opulent room she was in suggested great wealth. Moreover, he seemed polished and educated. It was mystifying… but everyone has his or her reasons. Reasons, good or bad, are what propel people forward to their fates.

  He watched her watch him, a measure of amusement in his expression. After a minute or two, he sat down on the edge of the bed, right next to her.

  “In future, you will not be given medicine for your pain from beatings. You need to live with the pain to learn from your mistakes. I made an exception today because you are so new, and thus your mistakes were not willful but plainly due to ignorance. That exception will be a kindness you will only experience this one time.

  “I want you to get off the bed right now and on your knees. It’s time for you to show me how well you plan to please me, my little Russian bitch.”