Page 136 of Where the Snakes Sleep

Neither of us acknowledges his actions.

The sexual part of our arrangement follows similar rules, although Ryan never announces that there is now an arrangement. He simply comes to me when he wants me.

Sometimes that means he appears in the library doorway and tells me to follow him upstairs.

Sometimes he sits beside me on the sofa, close enough that our thighs touch, and says nothing until I finally look at him, at which point he tells me exactly what he wants.

He controls what I am permitted to do.

Sometimes he prohibits kissing. Sometimes touching. Sometimes speaking.

Once, two nights after binding my wrists, he climbs onto my lap fully naked, pulls down my pants, and impales himself on my dick. He tells me I’m not permitted to move, then becomes visibly irritated when I obey, that he eventually mutters, “Fucking fuck me.”

“You told me—”

“I changed my mind.”

“Alright.”

Ryan glares at me for several seconds, then kisses me. He breaks the kiss almost immediately afterward and looks furious with himself.

Our relationship has become a negotiation conducted almost entirely through acts neither of us names.

Ryan takes control because he needs proof that I will relinquish it.

I relinquish control because I need him to learn that I can.

Neither of us says this aloud.

Ryan still seeks me out when something surprises him. He still enters a room and begins speaking casually before apparently remembering halfway through the sentence that he is angry with me.

He also still sleeps in the guest room, locking the door each and every night.

He uses my bathroom products when he runs out of his own, leaves shoes beside my front door, and has developed the habit of abandoning drinking glasses throughout the entire estate.

Months ago, if I had imagined the ideal progression of my original plan, it might have looked disturbingly similar to this.

The difference is that I despise having achieved it, because now I understand that proximity feels meaningless when the person beside you is maintaining an exit in his mind.

Ryan may be here, but that does not mean he has stayed.

On the fourth morning, I make a decision.

Ryan is sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone, when I place a small collection of objects beside his coffee.

Ryan looks at them, then at me, obviously confused. “What’s this?”

I answer, “The front gate fob, a key to the pedestrian entrance, and a key to the garage.”

His expression becomes suspicious. “Why?”

“Because you are staying here.” I sit across from him rather than beside him. “You are staying here because remaining at the cottage is potentially unsafe. That circumstance places you in the unpleasant position of relying on my property and therefore, indirectly, on me. I would prefer to reduce that dependence wherever possible.”

I continue before he can interrupt. “There is also a spare key for the smaller car in the garage. It is insured for additional drivers. If you wish to leave, you do not need to tell me where you are going or when you intend to return.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re giving me your car?”

“I am giving you access to a car.”