The Psychic

BY : SerafintheGreat
Category: Original - Misc > General
Dragon prints: 12924
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to real people, situations, or locations are coincidental.

It’s Christmas. The only reason I know is because he was reading the paper at breakfast, and I saw the date. When he caught me looking at the paper, he told me to go to the living room. I waited in the living room, and he came in, stripped me naked, and told me he wouldn’t stop fucking me until I came.

He did that three times today.

Perhaps it’s his version of a Christmas present. I am, I figure, supposed to be so thankful for the attention and the three orgasms.

I feel so dirty each time I cum, like I revealed something of myself that I’m supposed to keep secret, and now he knows everything.

He grips onto me hard now. He’s fast asleep. I can hear his quiet snoring, and I can feel his warm breath on my neck. Moving around isn’t an option, his arms are wrapped so tightly around my stomach and my neck.

We don't really exchange words ever. He didn’t bother telling me Merry Christmas. Even he knew that would be condescending.

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It’s the 7th night. To my knowledge, the men will return tomorrow. I lay down next to him in bed. He made me face him this time. My head is buried deeply in his chest when he grabs my chin and forces me to look him in the eyes.

“Remember, this week is our little secret.” He articulates it very carefully, venom dripping from each word, as if it was my fault that he participated in this little dalliance in the first place, and now I’m too stupid to understand the trouble I’ve caused.

“Do you understand?” He shakes my face.

I nod.

He releases my face, and he presses it back into his chest.

We are silent.

Soon, he falls asleep, and I can’t. I toss and turn restlessly in his arms, trying to be as quiet as possible as to not wake him.

I can’t help but feel violated by his remarks, but at the same time, what did I expect? Did I expect him to stop his evil ways and fall in love with me? Wait, why on earth would I even want that? How are things going to be different now that we’ve slept with one another so many times?

So many times. I count it in my head how many times he fucked me this week.

Seventeen times.

No, eighteen times. In one day, he fucked me four times. I almost forgot the time he bent me over the kitchen table and took care of himself very quickly.

How many times did I cum this week?

I count that in my head too.

Thirteen.

As if he was making up for all the lost time I had when I originally got kidnapped.

I remember my relationship to my sexuality before I got here. I would guess I was normal. No real deviancies of any interest. I had slept with three men, had my heart broken twice. I knew how to take care of myself, but I never really developed too strong of a comfort level with any of the guys I was seeing to orgasm consistently. In fact, it was a struggle and took extreme focus.

It shames me to think that he made it happen so many times. So quickly he figured it all out.

I should have made it harder. I shouldn’t have given in so easily. If I made it harder, perhaps he would leave me alone more.

Now what happens? When all the men come back, what happens now?

“What are you doing? Keep still?” he speaks. I must have woken him.

“I can’t sleep. I’m sorry,” I respond to him.

He’s silent.

“I should go back to my room,” I try to leave, but his arms don’t give.

“No, no, don’t leave,” he holds onto me, “I’ll help you sleep.” He lays his face against mine and brings his lips to my ear. “Go to sleep, darling, relax, shhh.”

He strokes my body as he whispers in my ear, his deep voice soothing, and I drift into blackness.

The next morning, I sit at the table as he eats his breakfast. Things have returned to normalcy, so he isn’t making me eat with him. I hear the front door open, and footsteps coming toward the kitchen. The Doc enters and looks directly at me.

“She’s still here? And she gets to sit at the table?”

“Did you enjoy your time with your family?” The Psychic asks.

“You don’t care about my family,” the Doc responds, “and neither do I. Shall we discuss our plan for the New Year?”

The Psychic finishes his coffee and rises from the kitchen table, leaving me with the dishes.

I go back to my usual duties, and the Psychic and I exchange nothing.

As I clean the dishes from dinner, I feel a presence in the room. I turn, and Doc is standing at the doorframe, looking more smug than usual.

He goes to the kitchen table and pulls a chair out. He sits and looks at me, smiling still.

“Can I do something for you?” I ask him, genuinely.

He smiles like an asshole and finally relents to my question, “How was your Christmas?”

I know this question isn’t a real question. It’s an insult. He knows what happened, and now he’s rubbing it in my face that it happened.

“How was your holiday? With your family?” I ask, a little bold, I realize.

He smiles back at me, “Oh, don’t you worry about my family. I don’t. I want to check in with you. You know, your feelings and how things are for you here. I really want to make sure I’m fostering a healthy work environment where you can thrive and be your best self.”

“I’m not going to tell you anything,” I respond to him.

“So something happened?” He sits there, really proud of himself, and finally, he leaves.

I return that evening to my normal room. The bed squeaks as I lie down. The bed I slept in for the week was a luxury. I almost miss it. I fall into a quiet slumber by myself.

The next morning I wake up at the usual time and walk into the kitchen to see the Psychic is already there. I look at the watch he gave me. It’s only 7am, so I’m not late.

He doesn’t acknowledge me as I enter. I’m at the fridge, when he grabs me from behind and slams my back against the door.

“Why am I here with no breakfast in front of me?” He growls at me.

“It’s not 7:30 yet,” I reply.

“I’m here already, and I’m hungry.”

When I don’t answer him, he slams me against the door again, and my head hits the back of it hard. Everything goes fuzzy for a moment.

“Where is my breakfast?” he asks again, more carefully.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d be early,” I try to appeal to his logic brain.

Then, he grabs my face hard and looks deeply into my eyes. I can’t look away. I feel very, very lightheaded all of the sudden, like something is washing over me, and I need to faint.

“Keep on looking at me,” he says, and I look back into his eyes, feeling even more lightheaded.

Suddenly, the whole feeling disappears, and I look away from him, as if some bind was broken in that moment. I slide down against the fridge, and collapse onto the floor.

He leans in toward him, “Now you’ll know.” He leaves me on the floor and takes a seat at the kitchen table.

I get up, quickly, and start making his breakfast.

My hands are shaky from the experience. I bring it to him and go to do the dishes. I know I’m not allowed to leave the kitchen unless he excuses me, so I stand nervously near the sink waiting for his orders. Normally, I would sit, but I can’t bring myself anywhere near him.

He doesn’t say anything to me for the rest of the meal, and when he finally leaves, I break down.

His act of violence seems more offensive than Doc’s. I had grown accustomed to the Doc’s hatred toward me, but I had come to have some sort of trust with the Psychic, that at least he wouldn’t commit any physical harm against me, but his eyes were terrifying. Then whatever happened after that?

His grip on my shoulders, his nails digging into my flesh. He had so much strength coming out of that thin body, and it was the first time he used it to bring me harm.

I have no friends here, and why on earth would I have ever thought that. I just thought he at least felt a little endeared toward me.

I feel humiliated for even thinking that was a possibility.

I go to my room. I’m committed to spend the rest of the day in my room crying.           

But then at 5pm, I feel compelled to go to the kitchen. I get up, almost outside of myself, and I get to the kitchen, and I start dinner. Just as I finish, the Psychic walks in and awaits his meal, which I’m already plating. When I place it in front of him, he doesn’t even say ‘thank you.’

It’s just him and me this time, as far as I can tell. My heart starts to race as the rage begins to boil over. How dare this man use me for a week and treat me the way he has, and then so quickly ignore me and pretend I am nothing to him. I want to claw his face off even more than I’ve ever wanted to claw off Doc’s face.

I breathe carefully and think over my options.

I have none.  

That was quick.

I stand against the sink with my arms folded staring at the floor. Normally, even before the week-long fuck spree, I would have sat in the chair furthest from him, but now that seems entirely undesirable.

I want him dead, more than I’ve ever wanted anyone to die. I need to study where he keeps the car keys. Then I can figure out a way to kill him and drive my way out of here, and hopefully I’d make it out before-

“Calm down.” He interrupts my thoughts.

I look at him.

He hasn’t even turned his head to look at me.

“I hate you.”

“Why do you hate me?” he asks without looking at me.

Then, I’m suddenly too embarrassed to explain. Of course he’s an asshole. In fact, being an asshole ranks fairly low in terms of his crimes against humanity. How dare he get away with being so warm and then being so violent.

He laughs, under his breath, “Stockholm syndrome getting you down?”

I think on his words a bit. Then, I take one of the plates from the sink. I approach him from behind, and I smash the plate against his head. The plate doesn’t shatter, but there’s no way I didn’t just do some serious physical harm to him. I’m taken even more aback by my actions than he appears to be.

He turns and looks at me, rubbing his head. I expect his eyes to be burning, but instead he just smiles. Then, I smash the plate on the floor, and I go to my room.

            

He’s gotten to me. I can’t deny the attachment I felt in that week, being with him almost as if he were a normal human being. Now, the fact that he has so easily discarded me makes me feel more violated than anything the Doc has done. It’s as if this whole thing has been a setup, so he can really lay it down once I got comfortable. I’m seething with hatred.

Then, suddenly, I feel that compulsion to go downstairs and make him breakfast. It’s 7am.

I go downstairs, and I see he’s already there with a cup of coffee reading the paper like a normal person.

Almost like a normal person because he has his full face of makeup on already.        

I make him breakfast, and I place it in front of him without a word. Again, I feel like some outside force is compelling me to sit at the table, but I don’t want to be anywhere near him. I don’t know when this battle between my subconscious and conscious started, but it’s strong. Then, I notice he’s looking at me.

“Why aren’t you sitting with me?” He asks.

I’m taken aback entirely by the question. I think hard on my answer. “Because I…I don’t want to,” is my response, finally. I realize that’s a mistake.

“I repulse you that much?” He asks me.

“Excuse me?” I respond.

He’s not giving me anything. His eyes are totally blank, which is somehow more horrifying. “You wouldn’t sit next to me unless you had to?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had feelings to hurt.”

That was a dumb thing to say.

He doesn't move, “sit.”

Not willing to test this any further, I sit, my head bowed. Then, he slaps me across the face, hard, and grabs my face before I can fall off the chair. The shock of it disorients me, but I’m trapped in his eyes.

“You aren’t scared of me, are you?” He asks.

“I’m terrified of you.” I respond.

There’s a pause between us. Then I lean forward.

“But you don’t get to have me. “ I continue, “Sure, you can take my body all you want because I don’t have a choice, but you’ll never have me. You are fucking someone who tries her best to pretend she’s dead while it happens. How does that make you feel?”

I leave space for him, but he doesn’t respond.

“So blame me for all your shortcomings as much as you want, but the reason I won’t sit next to you is because you’re evil.”

I’ve said my piece and I stare right back at him. He lets go of my chin and looks away from me.

After a moment, he speaks, “Do whatever you want. Go outside whenever you want, talk to whomever you want. I’ll protect you, still, but don’t you dare ever leave because I will kill you if you do so. You understand?”

I don’t, actually, but I nod regardless.

He walks away, but stops at the doorway.

“You still have a job here, and you better do your job, but I have no control over you otherwise.”

He leaves, and I feel a great wave of something wash over me, and I can’t quite articulate the feeling. It’s like a fog I’ve been living in has suddenly disappeared. What trick is up this man’s sleeve, I don’t know, but for this moment, I feel like I’ve won.

That is, if I believed this at face value.

I find him in the living room, staring at nothing.

“I don’t understand.” I say to him.

“I’m interested in usurping authority as best as I can. Commandeering the order of everything and flipping it on its head, so I can reveal to everyone the joke of everything they’ve believed. Am I interested in subjugating women and making them my slaves? That’s what the world already does. I’m not interested in committing petty crimes against women. So you’re free, but within reason. Everything stands as it does still, and that’s because due to a series of unfortunate events, you’ve ended up here. Sit with me,” he pats the seat next to him.

I sit, strangely feeling safe.

“No one is going to commit acts of violence against you, but you don’t get to go anywhere still.” His eyes soften, “I expect you to be a professional.”

I nod.

Then, he places his hand on the back of my head and kisses my forehead. He releases me immediately from his grip, as if terrified by his own action. 

I rise, and I go away, quickly, also scared.

 



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