Free Comfort Food by Kitty Thomas Page A

beside which another set of chains dangled. There was a black leather couch in the center of the room and a box overflowing with more sex toys than I’d ever seen outside a retail environment.
    I realized what I’d done too late. I’d accepted. I’d called him Master and accepted he was in charge of me, not me. Before that moment had I still had freedom? I wasn’t sure.
    He would have left me in the cell probably forever. But which was worse? The cell? Or the new tortures waiting for me in this chamber?
    It was a testament to how much of me he’d taken that I thought the bare cell was worse. He wouldn’t leave me alone in this room. He would be there with me. It should have sickened me. It should have made me scream in terror, but all I could feel was relief.
    I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see the nice room again, but this was better than the past two weeks of nothing. I turned to see him gauging my reaction. The door to this new chamber, equipped with the same technology as the others, stood open.
    He always gave me choices. Or maybe what he gave me was force wrapped in the pretty package of pretend free will. I’d spent a lot of time analyzing him, and though I knew he was obviously in some sense crazy, there was always a logical basis for his decisions. He believed he was giving me options, in his own twisted way, and therefore he wasn’t the bad guy.
    Either he didn’t recognize blackmail wasn’t a choice or he didn’t care. He hadn’t used physical violence. Until now. Whips seemed pretty violent to me. But I knew him now, more intimately than he thought.
    He believed he could hide his soul from me by never speaking, but his actions told me everything I needed to know. He wanted me to beg for the whip. And I would do it. I’d do anything he wanted. The door stood open, and he stepped aside, and we danced our little dance.
    Would I run? Or would I stay and obey him? The choice was obvious. There was nowhere to run to. He’d already shown me this was true. He would never force me to do anything in that dungeon room. He would just put me back in the bad cell and ignore me like a crated, misbehaving puppy.
    His eyes held challenge, and I stupidly still had enough defiance inside me that I wouldn’t run from him because I couldn’t face the shame and humiliation of going to that other cell again. The last incarceration had been two weeks, no time off for good behavior, no response to any of my demands or clever tricks. Next time would it be three?
    Or would he tire of this constant disobedience and shut me away forever?
    I didn’t move toward the door. I held his gaze and said, “I’ll do whatever you want.”
    I could see evidence of his arousal outlined through the pants he’d put back on. He was wearing only jeans, the muscles of his chest so beautiful I could hardly stand to look at him.
    Still, he didn’t move. I walked to the door and shut it, and then panicked because I’d just locked myself into a sadistic torture chamber with my captor. My captor who I trusted not to hurt me because he never had before, not physically anyway.
    I’d made my choice. I turned and moved back toward him, still naked. He hadn’t put the clothes back on me, and I was glad. I’d rather be naked than wear the clothing I’d come to associate with punishment.
    I watched him, waiting for his next move. He studied me for a few minutes as if his brain were cataloging all my actions and reactions on a hard drive somewhere.
    He held his hand out to me, and I stepped forward and took it, trying to stop shaking. He smiled that soulless smile that made me feel warm and like I was dying all at the same time. A flush crept over my body from the predatory gleam in his eyes.

    . . . He led her to the bed and arranged her on her knees facing away from him. The soft velvet was a warm caress against her skin. She heard his footsteps recede over the concrete floor, and she squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see what he’d gone to