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And then I was only concerned about the present.
Because the cook returned with a handful of new wooden spoons, the big heavy ones meant for stirring thick batters. The fact of more than one scared me. I started to babble, promising to eat the fish, which I was more or less stretched over at present.
"Shut up," Cole snapped. He stood to my left, his right hand wrapped in my hair, and shifted so his left hand got a better purchase on my dark curls.
I howled and he said, "Yes, I should think so." The pressure relented but only because he was using his left fist to press my head to the table. His now free right hand yanked down my underwear from under the short dress I wore. I felt him move his hand and pick up the first of the spoons. I felt his whole body turn with the wind up and then pain exploded through me as the thin wooden handle and flat bowl of the spoon snapped against my skin.
"Count," he ordered, and I had already lost track, the explosive pain felt like it had been radiating through me since time began.
I started with one and added ‘sir’ to each, without being ordered to, and after a dozen I begged him to stop.
After two dozen, he did.
He kept his hand snarled in my hair. I was sobbing, my face wet and the area between my legs on fire, a different fire than the pain radiating through my backside.
"Don't pull your dress down," he said. "Get on your feet and into your seat."
I operated on instinct, not taking the time to figure out his commands, just obeying instinctively. My bare ass hit the cold of the chair and I shivered, feeling the reality of it try and snap me back into the Annie who would be appalled by what was happening to me.
That Annie seemed lost to the one who wanted him to bend me over the table and take a different hard implement to me. I could feel his erection, now pressed against my shoulder as he stood close. His free hand reached down my dress, and for the first time since he'd left bruises and welts, he fingered my breast through the cloth.
"No surprises," he said to himself, I thought. "Pick the fish up with your right hand and start eating."
He hadn't moved away. I did as he told me, picking up the fish, cold and now more repellant than ever. As I took the first bite, he slammed the spoon down on my breast, making contact with the center of it, the nipple taking the brunt of the bowl. I thought that was probably better than the sting of the handle but I grunted, tried to put the fish down, and then understood as he ordered me to eat the rest of it.
One bite. One slap. Until the fish was gone and the fist left my hair and he told me to kiss the spoon and thank him, then take them all back to the cook. I was so grateful for him not having broken any of the spoons or started over, I responded promptly.
The cook, a beautiful woman in her forties or fifties, took the spoons back and said in a low voice, "You're lucky he didn't break them on you."
"I expected that, with the selection."
She winked then, unexpectedly, and pulled out a slotted wooden spoon meant for draining pasta or vegetables. "I told him I lost this one and they don't make them anymore."
I gaped at her for a second, so far into whatever headspace such scenes sent me, I couldn't process. Then I found myself laughing, quietly so he wouldn't hear. "Bless you."
She smirked, gave me a totally unnecessary pat on the ass that actually hurt, and sent me back to Cole.
That night we watched Pixar movies while sitting wrapped in warm fluffy robes on the wide, 70s style conversation pit couch Cole had set up in the movie room. I half suspected it was meant for orgies. We had popcorn and he had wine, while I had a soda. The edges of need crept around me. I wanted his wine. Or something stronger. Codeine from cough syrup, maybe. Anything to take the edge off the antsy anxiety.
"I'd like to ask a question, sir," I said, keeping my eyes on the movie. Asking if I could ask was still a bad idea.
"I'm fine with that." He was laid back, looking sleepy and evil as the god Loki in the Avengers movies. His smile was almost playful. His robe was a gray blue of a twilight ocean and set off his dark blue eyes. His hair looked more blond. He sat back with his legs crossed tailor-style and the robe pooling in his lap, looking lazy and sexy and dangerous. "But drop your robe to your waist. That's the price."
I wanted to protest. There were only the two of us present. But I supposed there were cameras on us and I was still uncomfortable doing it. I loosened the belt, slipped my arms out and let the top of the robe fall away.
He glanced at me, said, "That's going to bruise." He didn't sound pleased or displeased by it. It was a fact.
It hurt. Even when nothing was touching it. I thought if he did anything to it I'd drop to my knees.
"What's your question?"
"What happens next?" I asked. "I'm doing better with the need. I sometimes feel it when I'm – " I paused for only a second, because aroused sent the wrong message and excited didn't mean exactly what I wanted. "When I've got a lot of adrenaline."
"Opiates, like many drugs, build up in fatty tissue," he said, not looking at me. He seemed to be addressing his wine. "The hormones associated with fight or flight, the adrenaline complex hormones, are also triggered from fatty tissue. Access one, you access the other. So when I put you in an overly stressful situation – " He paused, as if appreciating the idea that he was stressing me out more than anything else – "both are triggered. That's why flashbacks occur at moments of stress. Because psychoactive, psychedelic and hallucinogenic drugs do the same thing."
"Because just what you need is to have a flashback when you're trying to fight off a bear," I said.
He gave me an amused look. "Do that a lot in Seattle, do you?"
