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“The first thing you need to do, is go through her closet and get rid of anything that’s fucking pink or floral. I’ve ordered some stuff that’s more her style, but the clothes seem to be a trigger for her,” Dimi says, his voice quiet as he brushes his knuckles over her shoulder softly.
“Get with the program and tell her what to do. She’ll listen to orders, and do as she’s told. She doesn’t want to have to choose to accept this is her life now. So, for the minute, all she has to do is what we tell her to do,” Vik whispers.
“I’m not a fucking Dom, I don’t want to order her around,” I protest weakly.
“This isn’t about you,” Dimi snaps.
“No one is expecting you to order her to crawl on the floor with a plug up her ass—although that is a nice visual. Just stop treating her like she’s your girlfriend. Whether we like it or not, she is our prisoner, at least until she falls for us and chooses to be here. Treating her like this is just a fun vacation, won’t work. The only choice she’s allowed right now is consenting to or refusing sex. She can say no to any kind of sexual activity, except for kissing, although she doesn’t have to kiss back if she chooses not to. Everything else in her world right now is at our discretion,” Vik tells me, his expression unusually serious.
“But—” I start.
“I know. You don’t like it. You want her to like you. I get it, but the truth is that she doesn’t want to be here yet. She wants the freedom she crawled through hell to claim and we stole away from her. We drugged her and flew her to the other side of the world, and then told her this was her life and to deal with it, be happy about it even. If she needs to cling to feeling like she’s just doing what she’s told, then that’s what we give her. We control her until she makes the choice to embrace this life,” Dimi says, staring down at her with so much love in his eyes it’s scary.
“She wants our touch, we made her feel good and a steady stream of endorphin inducing orgasms will go a long way to making her associate us with pleasure and happiness,” Vik says.
Dimi’s head nods in agreement. “We bring her into our world, until she’s so much a part of us, that it’s her world too. Starting tomorrow, after breakfast, we’ll talk her through the Orlov situation and let her know what’s going to happen next.”
Sighing, I nod my agreement. I hate that they’re right, but they are. I don’t want to be the assertive domineering captor, but if that’s what she needs, then maybe I can do it for her. “Are we all sleeping in here tonight?” I ask, glancing in the direction of my bedroom and feeling like I should sleep in there, rather than have Alabama wake up and find me in bed with them.
“Yes. She doesn’t like how exposed this bed is, but we need to make her understand that surrounded by us is the safest she’ll ever be. Eventually we’ll need to take down the walls and just have one big suite up here, that way there’s nowhere for her to hide from us and no excuse of wanting doors to feel safe,” Dimi says, staring at the dividing walls we had built to allow us each some private space.
“I’m happy to always fuck her with an audience.” Vik smirks, shuffling down the bed until his head is resting on the pillow.
Cringing slightly, I shake my head. “If she ever lets me near her, I’d rather have the option of some one-on-one time with her in my own bed, not that I’m against all of us enjoying this bed together. I’d suggest we build her, her own bedroom, but she’d probably lock herself inside.”
“We can think about it in the morning. For now, let’s just enjoy the first night with all of us together.” Dimi repositions Alabama so he’s lying down with her half sprawled on top of him. Pulling back the covers, I slide in beside Vik, wanting to be close to her, but feeling the distance between us like it’s a gaping canyon, instead of the width of a bed.
When I wake up the next morning, I’m facing Vik who is still curled up behind Alabama. The space where Dimi was sleeping is empty, he’s up already, probably in the gym or office. Sliding from beneath the covers, I use the bathroom, then step into the closet, glancing at the rails of clothes hanging with the tags still on.
Looking at them collectively, it’s clear that the palate is possibly a little or a lot more pastel than Alabama wore when she was living in Columbus. But we live on a tropical island, so when I ordered the clothes for her, I picked things I thought she’d look beautiful in, against a backdrop of white sand and blue sea.
I guess, maybe, I liked the idea of seeing her dressed a little more feminine. And I suppose, I might have been thinking more about what I liked, than what she’d pick for herself. In my defense, the clothes in here are all haute couture, the type of labels that most women would die to own. I just failed to recognize that expensive dresses and designer labels wouldn’t mean anything to her.
Stepping forward, I flip through the rail, grabbing anything that’s pink, floral, or super girly and dump them on the floor. By the time I’ve done the three long hanging rails, there’s only a handful of clothes left, but as I glance at them, none of them scream Alabama to me.
Moving to the dressers next, I leave all the lingerie. There’re some softer pastel colors but there’s also a mix of black, white and red too, and if I ever get to a stage where I get a choice on her underwear, I want her to have all of the things I picked out available to choose from.
I add most of the silk nighties and things to the discard pile too, working systematically through each drawer, until the only things that are left are less frilly and more sexy. Which if I’d have thought about her more when I was shopping for her, is actually much more her style.
Dimi picked out her clothes yesterday, but there was nothing laid out for her in the bedroom when I got up. Opening the dresser again, I pick out a rich emerald-green scrap of a bikini and then take a white button-down shirt from my own closet and head back to the bedroom.
Vik is just starting to stir, when I step up beside the bed, crouching down so I’m eye level with her. Reaching out, I carefully push her hair, that’s a knotted mess, away from her face.
“Alabama,” I call softly.
“What time is it?” Vik croaks, lifting the arm that’s not pinned beneath Alabama and stretching it above his head.
“Just after nine,” I tell him, checking my watch.
“Fuck, I slept like a baby. Must be the empty balls.” He laughs to himself. “Ali, Baby, I gotta piss, Honey, time to wake up.” Pulling his arm out from underneath her, he rolls across the bed and disappears toward the bathroom.
“Urgh, Vik,” she moans, rolling to her side and toward me, until her face is only inches from where my hand is resting on the mattress.
“Alabama,” I call again.
“Jesus, I feel like I got hit by a bus,” she moans, stretching and then grimacing.
“I’ll get you some of the pills Vik brought up last night,” I say, spotting them on the bedside cabinet on the other side of the bed. Standing, I circle the mattress and pick up the bottle of pills, then take a bottle of water from the mini refrigerator we have up here. Shaking two pills into my palm, I crouch back down beside the bed and hold them out to her. “Open your eyes, Honey, take these.”
