Sadistic Games: The Invitation

by Lucian Bane

  She recalled that sudden calm hitting her when she was trapped in his gaze. Had to be God, nothing else. Was he taking her fear because there was no need for it? No. No, He was clearing her mind so she could think which she surely hadn’t been able to in that moment.

  She closed her eyes, right as her body relived that brutal prison she’d gotten sucked into for all of ten seconds, ten eternal, burning seconds. She’d allowed herself to get drawn in, and it had started with all her casual looking, she was sure of it.

  She crossed her arms on her knees and laid her head down. “I’m sorry,” she breathed to God. “Please keep me strong. I know you brought me here for a purpose, and I know the devil is the vicar of those who turn virtues into vices. Protect me. And thank you for preparing Mordecai for what is coming to him. Open his heart and mind to receive those things that will set him free.”

  The calm from earlier slowly found its way into her muscles until all the tension and fears bled away, leaving nothing but the memory of that long hot bath waiting for her.

  C H A P T E R T W O

  Sessions

  Miriam managed to avoid running into Mordecai the next morning until around 11 AM when she received a text from him, asking if she wanted to meet in the library for their scheduled plans. She agreed and there they were, sitting across from each other at the small, two-person table, him staring at her, and her digging through her messy folder to locate the plan she’d just put on the top of the stack. The silence screamed messy, unprofessional slob as she struggled to not smell his cologne or see him in her peripheral vision, sitting there in blue jeans and a simple white t-shirt. Just normal clothes, Miriam, normal clothes.

  “God, here it is,” she flustered, angrily. “I must’ve moved it at the last minute.” She slid the folder over to him. “And just to double check, we’re only presenting our proposal for the preliminary study? The Exploratory? Is that what you’re doing?” she wasn’t sure now, she forgot there were several kinds.

  “Yes,” he said, sliding a folder over to her. “To both questions.”

  “Got it. Thank you.” She pulled the fancy black sleeve to her and flipped it open.

  “How’s your leg?” he asked.

  “Ah. Barely notice it, really. Thank you for asking that’s…” She remembered he wasn’t kind and momentarily fumbled for a term. “Very inquisitive. Of you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She forced her mind on the paper before her, refusing her brain’s need to go over his tone and what it meant. Then it hit her. The single page with seven items was in script. “Did you… write this yourself? I mean with a pen?”

  “I did, yes.”

  “Wow,” she couldn’t keep from saying. “I’ve never seen such beautiful penmanship! And so concise.” She had twenty-four items on hers, and for some reason, that earlier sloppy, unrefined, messy shame returned to her cheeks.

  “I prefer being thorough,” she explained. “I always feel like it’s better to have too much than too little when it comes to data collecting.”

  “I see that,” he said in that soft tone that made her want to shove her finger in her ear and wiggle its effect out of her head.

  “If I wrote in long hand you’d not understand it. My mom was sure I’d be a doctor someday.”

  “Why’s that?” he asked.

  “Because of my messy handwriting.”

  “Ah.”

  She got back to focusing.

  “I can teach you,” he said.

  She glanced up. “Teach me what?”

  “How to properly use a pen.”

  She let out a laugh. “Properly use a pen? Does it hinge on that?”

  “It does,” he said, back to reading hers.

  She snapped her eyes on his presentation, not wanting to watch him.

  1. Study to be conducted at the home of Mordecai Riddle and subject is to be available for observational study whenever possible and practical.

  2. One on one sessions, an hour each day for question/answer interviews to be conducted in the library.

  3. All sessions must be videoed.

  “I’m glad you suggested video, so did I,” she mumbled.

  “Yes, I see.”

  4. On weekends, subject will engage in at least one agreed upon study-based experiment.

  “I’ll… need some clarification on number four.”

  As though he’d memorized his list, he answered immediately. “It just means we’ll discuss me doing things you feel would further your studies. If I agree, then we do it, if I don’t then you find something I do agree on, and vice versa. Sort of like your number five and eight suggests. Also twenty-two.”

  She’d nearly reached for her paper and realized how ill-prepared it might make her look. She’d look later. “Alright. Sounds good.”

  “When you say twenty-four hours a day, are you including sleeping time?” he asked.

  “On… what?”

  “Your number twenty-three says studies are to be conducted twenty-four seven?”

  “Oh, right. Yes. I was hoping to have sleeping monitors for studying sleep patterns, etc. But we can wait to add that for the more targeted scope.”

  “I don’t mind. Am I allowed to have them for you as well?”

  “Of course,” she said, her heart racing at the idea of him watching her while she slept. She reminded herself of her lifeline and the locks on the door. She would have more locks installed in fact, ones from the inside. “Whatever I can do to help your study, I’m happy to do.”

  She got back to his list.

  5. Subject agrees to sign a non-disclosure agreement regarding all information obtained during the study.

  She’d not thought of that one. “Number five is pertaining to non-academic persons?”

  “Correct,” he said, again not having to wonder or question.

  6. Subject will maintain a transparent and honest attitude during preliminary study.

  7. Subject agrees to fully cooperate in maintaining the agreed upon schedules and conditions until preliminary research is complete.

  “Your conditions are fine with me,” he said.

  She looked up, surprised he was already done. “No questions?”

  He shook his head, his expression calm and serene, making her feel like it was all just too easy. “Do you?” he asked.

  She regarded his paper, quickly perusing. “None that jump out at me. But I’m sure it’s fine to ask later, should I need to?”

  “Of course and if you need to change any of the stipulations, I’d be happy to renegotiate.”

  Her chest loosened a little. “Fair enough. Same for me.”

  He held her gaze two seconds longer than she could stand, so she blurted, “When do you want to do the hour sessions? We can schedule ahead or play it day by day?”

  He shrugged. “What do you prefer?”

  She rolled the loose button at the top of her sweater between her fingers, thinking. “I like schedules,” she decided.

  “Me too,” he said.

  Something was different about him. He was… softer, calmer, more relaxed? “So, would you like to pick?” she offered, when he didn’t say more.

  “I think 8:00 PM in the evenings, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and 8:00 AM on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturday.”

  Wow. Already planned. “And Sunday?”

  “I was going to suggest we take Sunday as a personal day.”

  “Oh,” she nodded, never considering he might even have one of those. “Yes. Sounds reasonable. You probably have a family you will want to visit at some point. And friends.”

  “No. But I do have personal activities I enjoy doing away from the house.”

  “Ah, nice. Like what?”

  He eyed her for several seconds. “Today is Wednesday. Would you like to conduct our question/ answer session early?”

  She realized he was letting her know all questions would be considered part of therapy now. “Not at all, we’ll keep to the schedule. What
about that non-disclosure you mentioned?”

  “I’ll have it at the first session.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to look it over before.”

  “Sure. I’ll send the document to your phone, unless you prefer it emailed. If so, text your email and I’ll send it after lunch. Are you hungry?”

  Her stomach answered before her mouth did, thankfully not loud enough for him to hear. “Starving, actually.”

  “Did you have breakfast?” he asked.

  “A cereal bar.”

  He stared at her with that look, the one that probed. “Would you mind following a dietary plan during the study?”

  Heat burned her cheeks for some reason. “Now that I have plenty of free food, absolutely. You can write one out for me and I’ll happily follow it.”

  “I’ll cook for you,” he said. “If I may.”

  She raised her brows with that one. “Well, you drive a really hard bargain, Mr. Meany Pants. I guess I’ll permit you to so that I don’t wreck my subject by contaminating his kitchen with incurable germs.”

  He lowered his head, but she caught his grin. “Thank you for tolerating my unusual preferences, Miriam.”

  She gave him a look of mock severity. “Well, now don’t get too comfortable,” she warned. “This is going to be a give and take experiment. Be prepared to have your boundaries pushed.”

  He rocked her world with his next look. “I’m very ready.”

  Dear Lord, she was stuck again. Stuck in his damn gaze, how was that possible! “Good,” she said, her eyes twitching with the effort to break free.

  “I made a tuna casserole for lunch,” he informed, in a near seductive voice, ruthlessly holding her to his stare.

  Her mind turned the strange words over in her head while her body contemplated the feel of his voice. Tuna casserole. She liked that, she was sure. “Thank you. I’d say that was very kind of you but we both know you just want to keep me alive for studying.”

  He gave a real laugh this time but by then she’d found her backbone, the one that got her through college, alone, for four years. But she was pretty sure, nothing in all her four years came close to the assault this man put upon her. She reminded herself who put her here and why. To help him a man in bondage, in chains. A man God clearly wanted to help and led her straight to.

  She slid his folder back to him. He did the same with hers and she took it, putting it in her satchel next to her chair.

  She gave herself a break and purposely avoided looking at him while she gathered her stuff to leave; going slow enough in hopes he might go ahead of her.

  “I’ll meet you downstairs,” he said, getting up.

  “Okay, coming, just… trying to gather my mess here.”

  She chanced a glance when she saw him walking off, immediately running into the most perfect body ever created by the glorious hands of her heavenly creator.

  He turned at the door and she quickly stood, shouldering her satchel. “Right behind you.”

  ****

  Mordecai took a quick detour to his room before heading downstairs. He needed a minute after what he’d just experienced. He hurried to his board and paced before it, studying his existing wagers and those still in contemplation. But all he saw was her smile. The one she’d fixed on her face to hide her arousal. It was somehow more potent today than yesterday, but the more boggling fact was how he intercepted those signals, with his body instead of his brain. The strange reverse of data reception was unraveling something inside him and not knowing what that something was, and what lay at the end of it, presented a new dilemma. The dilemma of living with a blind spot. He wasn’t sure how to do that.

  But he’d wagered this. A small percentage of unknowns, this was it. He didn’t like it, but the prediction was solid. Stable. And therefore right on track even if he couldn’t see or understand that track. Yet.

  In seven hours, he’d conduct their first question/answer session and after that, he’d have everything he needed to know, and exactly how to proceed.

  C H A P T E R T H R E E

  You First

  Miriam got to ask questions first, but she wasn’t sure if she liked that. She had simple enough questions for their first day, wanting to ease her way in. She’d signed his non-disclosure agreement which turned out to be much like his preliminary plan—concise and simple.

  She hoped his questions were the same.

  Mordecai had a camera set-up for them in the library. All they had to do was put their own memory chip in when using it, which she’d already done. “Okay,” she said, assuming her practiced therapist pose across from Mordecai. Hands clasped on the desk before her. Pen and paper just in case she wanted to write notes, and her sheet of questions. “I just have basic questions,” she said, wanting to put him at ease, even though he seemed like he’d done this a hundred times. “I’ll likely ask one and let your answers guide me from there.”

  He didn’t respond other than to stare, waiting.

  “Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I’ll get started. Time is 8:00 PM. Wednesday, November 14, 2018. This is the first question and answer session with Mordecai Riddle. My name is Miriam Grace Beckett and I’m conducting the exploratory Q & A for my thesis. Uhhh. Okay.” She gave him a smile, wanting him to feel like she were a friend even though she knew he likely didn’t need that from her. She decided it was important to maintain a proper disposition with him, regardless. “Where were you born?”

  “According to my adoptive parents, I was born in Birmingham, Alabama.”

  “Oh,” she said lightly. “Do you believe that’s accurate?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they lied about other important things, so they can’t really be trusted.”

  “What kind of other things did they lie about?”

  “Me being adopted, Santa Claus, the Easter bunny and every other truth ignorant parents teach their children then steal from their lives in a single day.”

  His casual tone said it didn’t bother him, but she wrote the time on the paper to locate it on the video later to study his body language. “That seems understandable,” she agreed. “How old were you when they told you that you were adopted?”

  “Too old. Thirteen.”

  “How old do you think is an appropriate age to tell a child that?”

  “Seven.”

  “Any particular reason why seven?”

  “Because it’s the age a child can reason.”

  “Right,” she agreed. “And why do you think they waited so long?”

  “Ignorance?”

  “Do you hold it against them?”

  “No.”

  “How do you feel about it now?”

  “I don’t feel anything about it.”

  “Where are your adoptive parents now?”

  “They’re dead,” he said too easily.

  She wrote the time down. “How did they die?”

  “Plane crash.”

  “Where were you?”

  “With a babysitter.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Thirteen.”

  She paused. “Was this right near the time they told you about being adopted?”

  “Very same day.”

  “Wow. Where were they going?”

  “Paris. For vacation.”

  “Paris. How nice. Why didn’t you go?”

  “I didn’t want to. Was pissed at them.”

  She considered that for a moment. “Are you glad you didn’t go?”

  He eyed her. “I didn’t want to die with them, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  She stared at her notebook. “How did you feel about their death?”

  “Numb.”

  She wrote the time. “Did you ever grieve?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you think you ever will?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you angry with them still?”

  “Nope,” he said, like he’d default
ed to that answer without thought.

  She considered what question to ask, wanting to change the subject. “Do you have friends?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “No family at all that you talk to?”

  “I’m not a people person,” he said. “There’s family, but none I care to talk to.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She eyed him briefly, deciding to ask it even though she told herself to wait. “Girlfriends?”

  When he didn’t answer right away, she raised her gaze and found his head lowered. “Define girlfriend,” he said.

  “A girl that you like more than a friend.”

  “Maybe.”

  She wrote the time while wondering what to ask now. “Are you sexually involved with anybody?”

  “No.”

  She wrote the time again. “When’s the last time you’ve been sexually involved with someone?”

  “Never.”

  She raised her gaze and met his head on. “Never?” she asked.

  “That’s what I said,” he answered, his eyes not wavering.

  “You’re a virgin?” she asked, fighting to keep the doubt from her tone.

  “I do believe that’s the term for it, yes.”

  “Is there a reason for why you’ve not been sexually involved with anyone?”

  “Haven’t met the right person?” he suggested.

  “Do you have the desire for sexual involvement?”

  “Maybe.”

  She wrote the time. “When you say maybe, do you mean you’re not sure if you want to?”

  “Yes.”

  Interesting. “You’re not sure if you want to have sexual relations?”

  “Correct.”

  She narrowed her gaze, staring at her paper as frustration edged in. “Do you know why you’re not sure?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you think your inability to know that answer has something to do with your diagnosis?”