The Psychic

BY : SerafintheGreat
Category: Original - Misc > General
Dragon prints: 12916
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to real people, situations, or locations are coincidental.

Somehow, next to the Psychic I manage to sleep peacefully. When I finally wake up, I see I’m alone. I go to the bathroom, and this time I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

I’m drowning in my slip. It hangs off my collarbones now having once been made for a more substantial me. My face looks greyer and gaunter than when I last remember. My hair is some semblance of how it used to look. It’s frizzier, but it’s still full and the color is still rich. It contrasts oddly with my grey skin.

I go back into the bedroom, and I find a robe is draped over a chair. It looks like something from a Fred and Ginger movie. I put it on, and I can’t help but feel elegant, but the image in the mirror haunts me. What’s the point of such a beautiful garment on such an ugly person?

I go downstairs toward the kitchen, and I can smell bacon and freshly baked something. I stop at the doorway, and I see him at the stove cooking. “Have a seat,” he says, his back toward me, yet still having somehow sensing my presence.

I sit down.

“Help yourself.” I see a pitcher of orange juice on the table. I pour myself a glass.  The cool vitamin C curses through my veins. There’s also a basket of freshly baked croissants on the table, and by freshly baked, I mean they must be Pillsbury or something because there’s no way he was up all night burying layers upon layers of butter in pastry dough.

He approaches the table and sets a plate of eggs and bacon in front of me, and he sits at the corner next to me. I gasp loudly when I see his face.

He isn’t wearing any of his makeup.

I cover my mouth immediately, “I’m sorry. I’ve just….I….”

He looks at me. His eyes look bluer without the makeup, and kind of smaller. His real eyebrows are a pale brown, and his hair is longer, and without the gel to keep it in place, the waves hang messily. His nose is long and pointy, almost birdlike and very European.

“I’m sorry,” I look away from him and at my juice.

“You should eat,” he responds.

I look at the feast in front of me. He takes a croissant and places one on my plate. He pushes a small plate of butter and jam toward me as well. He rips open his croissant and spreads butter and jam on it. I start eating my bacon and eggs. I observe him quietly as he eats.  He eats ravenously and quickly, as if he’s unsure of where his next meal is coming from.

My belly fills quickly, having probably shrunk from months of only really picking at the meals I’ve made for him. About half of my plate is still left by the time I feel satiated.

“Have more,” he goes to fill my plate, but I stop him.

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

He looks at me, no expression in his eyes, “you look so thin.”

I feel myself retreat as far as possible into the chair. The image of that ugly girl haunts me in the mirror.

He doesn’t press me any longer. I sit as he finishes eating. When he finishes, I go to take the plates, and he puts up his hand, halting me, “I’ll take care of it. Go, do whatever you would like.”

And I look up at him, only for a moment, and respond sheepishly, “thank you…sir.”

“Why do you call me that?” His tone changes, suddenly seething with resentment, and my heart stops, upset that he’s so angry with me all the sudden.

“I….I have no idea what to call you. And I’m your slave-I mean, maid.”

I catch myself using the word slave. He looks at me, and without the makeup, I recognize the same darkness I’m used to seeing. He’s mad at me, dangerously mad at me, and I can’t leave because that’ll make him even angrier with me.

“Don’t call me that ever again,” His tone is barely veiled. I struck something deep in him.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Thank you for the food.” I get up, and I leave the room.

I take a shower, and I can’t help but cry a little after that strange threat. I’m trapped with just him this week, and so far, it’s already been a terrifying roller-coaster ride. First, he has sex with me. He practically tucks me into his bed and makes me breakfast. Then, he suddenly lashes out at me because of terminology.

I spend most of my day reading the overflowing catalogues of National Geographic that fill some shelves. I sit in the living room, the scene of the crime from last night, but this time I’m in the armchair, so no one can join me.

I look up from my magazine and see he’s standing in the doorway. He's wearing slacks, suspenders, and a henley shirt. Without all the fanfair of his usual costume, he looks even thinner. He approaches me. I go to get up, wondering if that was what I was supposed to do, if I’m in his favorite chair or something. Or maybe I’m supposed to start dinner?

He holds his hand up, halting me.

He stares at me again, expressionless. Like some power is drawing him toward me.  I’m terrified he’s about to punish me for calling him ‘sir’ this morning. He stands before me, and I look into his eyes. In that moment Dressed like a normal human being, I wonder how this man could possibly be the same man who terrorizes all of Kingston City.

But it is the same man.

How many deaths are on this man’s hands?

It’s also the same man who raped me just the night prior.

He stops, but just as quickly as he stops, he comes at me again, like he shook off some idea.

I’m almost shaking when he gets down to his knees in front of me. He places his hands on my legs, which are curled up on the chair. He extends them onto the floor, and he spreads them open. I’m wearing a pair of leggings right now, and he pushes himself forward, between my legs, resting his nose on my pelvis. He sniffs broadly, and his whole body shudders in response. He starts kissing around my pelvis, planting soft kisses everywhere.

I grip onto the arms of the sofa. His grip is vice-like. Closing my legs or resisting isn’t an option.

I think about telling him to stop, but I’m alive, and I’ll only stay alive if I let this happen.

His kisses get closer and closer to my spot, and my body betrays me, ready for the final assault, while I try so hard to prevent it emotionally.

Then, his lips land on my clit, separated only by two very thin pieces of fabric. Both his arms snake under my thighs and pry me open further, so his mouth can have full reign over that entire area. I writhe and shake realizing my body hasn’t actually felt this since I’ve gotten here. That’s four months without an orgasm.

Finally, after a steady assault, I feel it happening. My body gets very still and very tense. I grip the arms of the chair. Then, beside myself, I cum and I shake against his mouth riding it out, until I finally relax and he releases me. I whimper quietly as he rests his head in my pelvis once again, no words.

Then, he walks away, leaving the room, without even looking at me.

In his wake, I can feel my heart beating rapidly. It’s beating so hard, I feel as if it isn’t beating at all. I need to get out of here. I need to go outside, something. I just need to get out.

I run into the hallway, and I bump directly into the Psychic. He holds onto my arms, steadying me.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?”

Suddenly, I feel very, very guilty of something, “I….uh…..I…..”

He looks at me, very seriously, waiting for my words.

“I want to go outside.”

He looks at me, and I feel I’ve made some huge mistake. “I’m sorry, I-“

“Shh,” he stops me. He reaches into the coat closet and finds my coat. He opens it up for me, and I put my arms in it. I button myself into it, and turn to thank him when I see he’s putting his coat on as well.

Before I can hide my troubled expression, he’s caught it. There’s a warning now in his eyes, like everything I say and do is on the verge of setting him off, and I remember once again that I have no freedom here. No way is this man going to let me outside on my own.

He leads me to the backdoor, and I feel the winter chill on my face, remembering once again it’s Christmas. Thinking about the depression of my family is a wasted thought. Everyone in my family is miserable. There is no celebration to be had anywhere.

He walks with me toward the dock, and finally, I can’t take it anymore.

“Can I be alone?” I look up at him.

He looks down on me, expressionless again, but this time I hold my ground. If I don’t have this time to myself, he will regret it as much as I will. There is a warning in his eyes. I’m not allowed to go anywhere. He turns, and I see him sit on the deck.

I turn and go toward the river. It hasn’t snowed but the dock is cold when I sit on it. Then, I let it happen. I start crying.

I don’t understand anything that just happened. He just made me cum. I had a hard enough time cumming with some of my boyfriends, but this beast, who kidnapped me and made me his prisoner, made me cum.

Well, he didn’t kidnap you. The Doc did. He just likes you for some reason and has kept you around, which you should be thankful for.

Don’t be silly, he doesn’t like you. He’s trying to control you, and you just gave him your ultimate weakness. If you were stronger, you would have held it back from him.

But it had been so long….

Bullshit, you’re weak.

I cry more into my hands hoping my body isn’t reacting in such a way that he can see it from where he is. I am weak, and I am pathetic for having let him have me. If I were a better person, I’d let him kill me first.

I dare not turn around. I can’t engage him. He’s far away, and he’s not interested. He just wants to make sure I don’t run away, I reassure myself.

“It’s cold.”

I jump at the proximity of his voice, and I turn to see he’s standing close now. I nod, and I get up and go to him. It is cold, and I hope he thinks my eyes are red because of the wind and the cold. I feel his hand gently on my waist bringing me forward to the house. When we enter, we go to the coat closet. He takes my coat and hangs it.

“I’ll make dinner now,” I make to go to the kitchen, and he stops me.

“No, no, I’ll make it. Relax.”

I nod, and I walk back to the living room. I sit and try to lose my thoughts in a book, but it’s impossible. All thoughts are on him.

“Margot.” I hear his voice from down the hallway, approaching. He enters the living room.

“Dinner is ready.” I nod, and I go to him. He let’s me go first, playing the role of the gentleman very well, and leads me down the hallway.

He’s prepared a candlelit dinner with steaks, potatoes, and a salad. A plate is already made for me. He pours me a glass of red wine and one for himself. He raises his glass toward me for some reason, and I raise mine gently in response. I take a sip of the wine, and I wonder if I can get away with downing the whole thing, or if it would be too obvious that I’m trying to get drunk in order to cope with all of this.

As I start eating my dinner, I see he eats like a machine, and he drinks the wine like it’s water. The portion, again, is huge, and I get to about half of everything when my tummy feels full. I set my utensils down, and I place my napkin on the table.

“Do you not like it?” he asks.

“No, it’s very good. I’m just stuffed.”

He looks at me, very serious, “Are you trying to lose weight?”

I’m taken aback, entirely, “No…I-“

“Then why are you starving yourself?” he snaps.

“I…I…” I can’t find the words as he looks at me, the darkness in his eyes, “I need to go.” I manage, finally. I try to get out before I start crying, but he grabs onto my wrist. I stand where I am, and I cover my face with my other hand, and I start crying. I feel him squeeze onto my wrist harder, and then he throws it out of his hand. I hear him take the bottle of wine and fill his glass. I cover my face as I cry.

“Can I go, please?”

“No,” he responds, “Just sit down and be calm, please.”

I sit, and I try to stop crying. Finally, I’m able to control the tears. Without saying anything, he retrieves another bottle of wine and opens it at the counter. He comes back and fills my glass. I drink it and eat a little bit more of my food.

I do the dishes as he makes his way through another glass of wine. In my head, I count that he must have had at least 6 glasses of wine. I’d be dead if I drank as much as him.

After I finish doing the dishes, we go upstairs together. He brings me back to his room. He turns me to face him, and he holds onto my arms, a very serious look in his eyes.

I look back into his eyes, I feel compelled to take my clothing off. I wonder where I become so bold all of the sudden, but for some reason, I just don’t care.

As I stand naked, I can feel how much thinner I have gotten. My body feels so cold in this room and, as if knowing, he wraps his arms around me and hugs me close to his body. I’m pressed against the soft fabric of his clothing. Right now, he might be a normal human being.

Then, acting outside of myself, I start to lower his suspenders. I unhook them. Then, I take his shirt off revealing his body to me. It’s littered with scares and bruises. He’s so naturally thin that I can see his ribcage protrude a bit, but I also know he’s very strong. I unbutton his pants, and he halts me after that. Then, I go to the bed, and I wait for him.


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