linxy - is a story that I wrote about seven years ago. Then I threw it away and just started with the Henry part. Then I threw out the Henry part and went back to Linxy. Then I changed Silke's name to Audrey. Then I changed her name to Olivia. And now, here it is, in serial form. Let me know what you think. It makes me feel good about myself.
part 1
I don’t know why they do it…I don’t
know if they’ve never seen t.v. before, or ever read a book, maybe they
don’t have parents or guardians. Maybe, and follow me here…they’re
just stupid. But there are women out there, girls really, who just don’t
understand.
You never talk to strangers.
Take all of your self defense classes, psychology,
carry your keys like a weapon, empower yourself, all that shit. It just boils
down to that one fact. You don’t know who’s out there. You don’t
know who’s picking up your scent. If you’re a girl, and you’re
alone and it’s dark and you hear footsteps behind you. Just remember;
You never talk to strangers.
I think about this as I stare at Olivia, sleeping
peacefully in a drug induced stupor. My eyes get ‘stuck’ sometimes
and I just freeze on something stupid, like a leg or a lock of hair. I think
someone told me once that it’s actually a sort of seizure when that happens.
Probably a brain tumor. Something killing me without me even knowing it.
Her head is turned to the side and it exposes the
length of her neck. I can’t stop watching the pulse running calmly under
her skin. A false calm. A manufactured, pharmaceutical calm. I count the beats,
slow, even. I put her ankle back under the blankets and tuck it in before the
heavy shackle and chain make her whole leg slide off the bed. It looks ridiculously
large against her skinny limbs. She stirs and lets her arm lay slack, palm up,
hanging over the side of the mattress, turning her head the other way. She mumbles
something and turns onto her side, making the blanket shift to reveal her naked
shoulder and arm.
Give me a little credit. I put them in nightgowns
at least. Light, loose white cotton, to the knee, with thin spaghetti straps
and a cute ruffle at the bottom. Like my sister used to wear, if I remember
correctly. To be fair, the clothes they arrive in are usually tattered, or cut
up the front, bloody, so I just burn them. No need for that kind of evidence
anyway. Cover all the bases. Make them disappear. What did that guy always say?
That magician? It’s an ILLUSION. I take a drag off my cigarette and recross
my legs. I shouldn’t have tried to carry her. It makes my back pinch and
sends a tingle down my leg…my left foot falls asleep sometimes. I’m
pretty sure it’s sciatica.
I could go get lunch, a beer or six, but to be
honest, I want to BE here when she wakes up. I like to watch them go bonkers.
It kind of brings the grab full circle. You get to see what they’re made
of, a hint of what’s to come in the next couple of days, the base elements
of flight or fight.
"No. NO," She whines. "No. Help!"
She thrashes a bit and then sits bolt upright, her honey colored hair a tangled
mess, hanging in front of her eyes.
"Good morning sunshine." I purr, blowing
smoke in her direction.
"I was dreaming I was on fire."
"Oh come on. I wouldn’t let that happen
to you."
She looks around, her eyes wide, still glassy from
the drug. There’s a bruise on her neck where the needle got jostled around.
She pulls the blanket back and looks at her ankle. She claws at it, pulls at
it, but really, there’s no hope. The chain is bolted to the wall and the
cuff is nice and tight. Iron on the outside, thick rubber lining the inside
so it hurts when it twists against the skin. There’ll be a puffy red burn
on her creamy white skin when we decide to take it off. It’s a long enough
chain that she can walk around the room, but not far enough to get to the door.
And if she needs the bathroom she has to call for me.
The thing is, we don’t want them terrified
from minute one. That usually ends in tragedy. Damage to themselves and others.
It’s like throwing a frog into a pot of boiling water. They jump right
out. But if you put the frog in warm water and slowly heat it…they don’t
even know they’re being cooked. So the further restraint is kept for when
they act up. You build on a theme. Up the ante. And the great part is…they
always act up.
"What’s your name?" she says, with
a hint of ‘demanding’ in her voice. We’ll see how demanding she
is tomorrow. I smile at her and exhale smoke in her direction.
"A secret," I say with a hint of mystery.
I mean, come on. Being the bad guy is fun. She struggles with the shackle for
another second and then gets up to walk close to me. She’s trying the cute
bit right off the bat. I could write a script about this shit. The five stages
of captivity. One of her nightgown straps has slipped down her arm and I can
see the top of her smooth, plump breast. She’s got a sweet smile on her
face, but the drugs are making her wobble on her feet. It’s hard to lie
when you’re hopped up on goofballs. I watch her progress closely, giving
her a smile in return.
"I’m Olivia."
"I know. I stole your purse." She still
smiles, but I see that one of her hands is clenching and unclenching into a
fist. "Are you going to hit me, peaches?" She swings her weakened
fist out and I grab her by the wrist and bend her hand backwards, dropping her
to the ground with a loud thump. She cries out in pain and tries to pull herself
free, but I have a good grip on her tiny arm. I can hold her tightly enough
that my fingers overlap. She starts sobbing, pulling at my fingers, grinding
her bare knees into the hardwood floor. "Come on Olivia. Be a good girl,
at least for the first day." She struggles and twists, the chain of her
ankle shackle jingling behind her. I crush out my cigarette with my free hand
and stand up, pulling her to her feet and pinning both of her arms behind her
back.
"You’re hurting me," she says quietly,
looking at my chest. Her whole body is trembling.
"Are you kidding me? Compared to tomorrow,
when you’re clear, in the present, this is a Swedish massage." I throw
her to the bed and open the closet, pulling out two well-worn leather wrist
restraints with short chains that fit to bolts in the wall behind the bed. She
scoots away from me when she sees them, but I just straddle her hips to pin
her still and fasten each wrist high above her head. It puts less strain on
the back that way. A knot of tension cracks audibly in her shoulder and her
fingers splay out like delicate wings. The position makes her tits push forward
through the nightgown. I jovially pinch one of her sharply erect nipples before
getting up and it clearly appalls her. I just laugh.
"What is this? What’s going on? What
did I do?" she asks, twisting her her hands. "How long will I be here?"
"Well, we’ll have to see. It depends on how good you are." I pull two long strips of black cloth from her nightstand. One gets rolled up tight and shoved in her mouth to push her tongue back and keep her quiet, and the other ties tightly around her head to keep it in place. She’s crying already. It looks quite nice. I love watching girls cry. "I have people coming over today, kitten. I want you to behave and keep quiet. One of them might want to take you home soon, and then I can leave on vacation finally." Her eyes open wider and she tries to say something, but I just walk away. Before I shut the door I say, "And you can call me Linx, if I decide to let you talk again."