Due to circumstances beyond my control, the Gentleman Rapist will be offline indefinitely. Sorry, folks!
Due to circumstances beyond my control, the Gentleman Rapist will be offline indefinitely. Sorry, folks!
The next morning, I lay in my bed, thinking. I had spent so much time with Ginger, just to ruin everything I had made. I doubted that she would obey me, after that. All of my gentlemanly airs had been blown away by a deep fog of alcoholic muck. I could hear the world going on about me, everything except for the one part I was most curious about. The soundproof walls kept that mystery for me. I remember thinking that I could die, right then and there, and be no worse for wear.
But then…I got to thinking. If I died, in my bed, Ginger would die as well; of starvation, most likely. I had hidden the room well, and left no way out.It was almost Egyptian, really. Like it or not, she was stuck with me until her death. It made me feel a little better, so I pursued the line of inquiry. I pictured, in my mind, my beautiful mistress, wasting away to nothing, her body weight dropping even farther than it had under my administrations. Too weak to get up, she would eventually fade away…perhaps on the bed. It was more poetic, that way.
By the time I had finished my self-indulgent thoughts, the day was moving on to evening, and I had as of yet to do any work. Truthfully, I didn’t put much heart in my work after acquiring Ginger. Somehow, I knew that it didn’t matter. Perhaps that’s why, after the fall, they called me a prophet. Who knows. That is not this story, and by then, Ginger would be long gone. This story is rightfully her story, after all. Not mine.
I brought her dinner that night, quietly and respectfully. I was still very much ashamed of my actions, and made sure to dress myself in full, professional attire. She looked at me warily as I entered and placed the food down on the table. I set only one place, then stepped away, bowed my head, and left. She shouted something after me, but I didn’t hear it properly. The door was already closing, separating our worlds. Tears fell, and I am not ashamed of them. It is only right to cry when you have been very, very wrong.
Similar days were to follow. I trudged through the motions with my clients, obtaining commissions and working odd hours as it suited me. I fed Ginger more regularly, allowing her two meals a day, as if in penance for my own arrogance. Every time I went down those stairs, I could see her eyes piercing my soul, pitying me with a loudness I couldn’t bear. I had no clue how to respond to it. How was I to understand that this wasn’t a bad thing?
I had almost raped a girl I had spent so much time preparing. For me, at the moment, it was almost a death sentence, and the gloom just would not lift. At least, not until I saw the news report.
It was by chance, really. I hardly ever watched the news. Seeing how many sick perverts were out there in the world, killing and maiming hundreds, it was disheartening. The news reminded me how little hope the world had. Imagine my surprise when I saw a photo of my Ginger upon the screen. The story instantly caught my attention, and I cursed myself for not paying more attention to the outside world. I needed to maintain my vigilance if I was to make sure we both survived in perpetual Lust.
This report gave me some hope, however, and even made me laugh. I hadn’t laughed in what seemed like ages, though in truth, it hadn’t been more than a handful of weeks since the incident. It felt, and still now, I remember it to be, it’s own separate eternity. But…the report.
The report was talking of a local woman who had fleeced bankers out of hundreds of thousands of dollars, taking out loans to start her own business. A local entrepreneur, they called her, and mentioned that all of her businesses had failed almost a year ago. Less than two months after that, she had mysteriously vanished. It took me some time to come to grips with what they were saying, but the realization made me laugh. The police, the reporters…all of them were so certain of my Ginger’s guilt that they could think of no explanation less than her fleeing the country. They were even looking for her in Brazil, hoping to bring her back to justice.
The next day, I went out and bought a handful of papers. Anywhere that had her picture or her name, I frequented. It became a small obsession of mine, and for her, I began to make a scrapbook, detailing her supposed life abroad. She led the police on a merry chase, from Brazil and Columbia off to Japan…then sightings in China, India, and Sweden. And as her life grew out of proportion, I began to relax. I didn’t leave as quickly after handing her meals, and while there was still pity in her eyes, she didn’t ask me to leave.
It wasn’t long before we had our first, real, honest chat, Master to pet.
Far too many storytellers leave out the blood these days. There is a very, very obnoxious tendency to gloss over anything that might be considered painful, or simply in bad taste. They limit their tales to what is directly relevant, and what leaves the world black and white. I bring this up because the story that I am about to tell you is one that I am deeply ashamed of. I have no excuse for my actions, and I ask no quarter for them, either. I tell it because it has happened, and because that is the standard by which I wish to be judged.
If you’ll recall from the last time we spoke, I was telling you of my dinner-dates with Ginger. I had begun looking forward to them, for, even though she did not respond much, and often tried to avoid talking all together, it was time alone with the girl who I had stolen away, and this time was special. In a world of deadlines and stress, for a few months, at least, things were easy and relaxing. I sat there, and we talked — well, I talked, she listened — and we ate dinner.
I won’t lie. I expended a lot of effort on those dinners, and I was happy to see her responding, but…I believe I took things too far. I expected too much from her, too quickly. Her obedience had spurred me to indiscretion and rudeness. There came a night, and I must struggle to say this, when I almost had my way with her, against her will.
I had been to a local bar. At first, my goal was to pick up some food and bring it home as a treat to her, but…as I sat there, in the musky atmosphere, I witnessed couples sitting in booths. Like a voyeur, I watched them. Some petted and played, while others kissed. One particularly naughty couple sat whispering indecent suggestions to each other, and carrying them out. All I could see around me, it seemed, was happy people, in the prime of their lusty passions. I did all that I could do – I drank.
The food was cold by the time I brought it home, and I…well, let us just say that I shouldn’t have drove. I went almost immediately to the stairs, whiskey on my breath, and lumbered down to Ginger’s apartment. As usual, she heard me coming and scurried for the bed. As soon as her motion stopped, I unlocked the door and entered, the takeout containers in my hands.
I very silently, and very carefully laid out the contents on the table, well aware of her large and bulging eyes. She hadn’t had food this good in ages, I was sure — I may pride myself as a cook, but this was food from outside, from beyond the walls of her world. While I worked with the food, I contemplated how best to brooch the subject with her. In the end, and, I must stress this, in my drunken state, I decided to be blunt.
“Strip, and we’ll eat.” I could feel the words slurring as they left my mouth. That should have been my cue to leave, but I didn’t. I was, after all, slurring my words. I think I even called her a hussy, but I’m not certain. All I know is that with each word her mouth dropped lower, and she began to quiver in fiery rage. At the time, I thought it was cute and laughed.
Ginger had at least some boundaries still, at that point. That night, I found out that nudity was one of them. It would still be a while before I would see her in her naked glory — and a longer while still before I would enjoy her fully.
That night, though, I tried. When she refused to strip, I began to eat the food like a boar. I told her she wouldn’t have anything left to eat, if she didn’t hurry up. She didn’t scream obscenities, but she also didn’t remove her clothing, instead turning towards the wall, so as not to see me. That also should have been a cue to leave, but it wasn’t.
It shames me that I ate both my food and hers, and then threatened her. It was the actions of an impatient infant, not a man who would one day rule hundreds of lives. I threatened to beat her, not to feed her, quite a few things. The words that came out of my mouth left her crying, and tore a hole in the trust I had carefully created. I considered beating her, taking her with force, and for a moment, the vision of her, lying in a puddle of cum, took over my mind.
I was halfway across the room, with my pants unzipped, before I knew what I was doing.
She was crying for help and pushing me away when I had enough sense to stop, and stumble away.
I didn’t leave…I wasn’t smart enough for that. But what I did do was sit in the corner and complain, moping about how things weren’t going to plan, and quite a bit of other nonsense. Lauren Hyll once said that we can’t plan life; all we can do is be available for it. That night, I was not available, and all of my plans were falling through.
I believe that Ginger almost talked me into letting her go, while I was wrestling with my guilt. Even in that drunken state, I knew I had ruined our relationship, but I saw no way to fix it. I spent the whole night there, Ginger scared out of her mind in one corner, and me, sobbing and crying and carrying on. When I finally left, it was dawn, and I was so hung over that I slept straight through to dusk. For the next week, I left Ginger her meals on her table, and wordlessly left again after. I didn’t talk, and she didn’t seem to mind one bit. We knew which one had won that night, and I did my best to forget about it, while she spent her time plotting.
But that’s for another story.
Good things come to those who wait. The trick, as Lee Iacocca once told reporters, is to make sure that you don’t die waiting for it to come.
Within the first few weeks, life with Ginger settled into a routine of sorts. I would wake up and start my day as if she wasn’t there; bathing, dressing, doing a bit of work. Then, around the late afternoon, I’d cook a meal and bring it down to her apartment. I’d knock, she’d scream and call me horrendous names, and I would go upstairs to eat, taking her food with me. Many nights, I played a game of sorts — I would cook only a single meal, and if she failed to curse and call me names, she would be the one to eat it while I went hungry.
I only missed a single meal every four days or so, but it brought us closer, or so I thought. Certainly, nothing could have pushed us farther apart than we started.
But stagnation takes its toll on everyone, myself included. After multiple weeks of the same routine, I felt the need to spice it up a bit…to begin to show my lady love that she would need to do more than simply keep quiet, to earn her feed. I waited until a day when she did not curse, did not swear, and did not threaten me. Then, entering the apartment, I bestowed upon her my most pleasant smile. “My dear Ginger…your bruises are healing quite nicely.” She scowled at me, but she was too hungry to antagonize me. It had been four days since her last meal, I believe. Or some such. One forgets the unimportant details, over time.
“Sit up on the bed, let your master get a good look at you.” The words thrilled me, as did the look of hate in her eyes. She sat up though, her back arching with pride. Not unkindly, I shook my head and motioned to the bathroom. “You have been wearing those…rags…since you moved in here. Go get yourself a shower and find something more suitable. Then you may eat.”
My sweet Ginger practically choked on her own rancor. It was to be expected, of course…she wasn’t used to receiving orders, yet, but I would break her, and we both knew it. I walked from the room, taking her food with me. The water began to run a few minutes later. At the time, naive as I was, I believed that that was all it took to train someone — a few rewards, a few patient words, and they would go on listening forever.
For the next week, I fed her regularly…daily, almost. Each time, I’d come in, look at her outfit, and tell her to shower and change. She would do it, growling and cursing at me under her breath, and then comply. I decided that I would not give her the satisfaction of complacency, however. I kept at it until she started to turn up already washed on my first trip down, panting for breath from the quick shower and frantic dressing. When finally she understood her part, I introduced a new piece to her “chores”. Looking over her, a plate of roast lamb and asparagus in my hands, I frowned disapprovingly. I remember needing to stress the emotion on my face, like some greek actor in a tragedy.
“Your bed isn’t made. A lady doesn’t eat in filth.”
She learned quickly: Within a few days, the whole of her apartment was being kept clean, she was changing daily, and being fed, yes, daily.
I don’t know what girl could ask for more. Aside from Ginger, of course — she was always picky.
The first signs of trouble came when I decided that it was time for her to take her meals with me. As I would not let her out of the apartment, it fell to me to bring chairs and a table down to her. While I did this, she sat in silence, a look of puzzlement and fear written across her face. As if she had anything to be afraid of, the silly thing.
The first night, she didn’t eat until I had finished and left. I let her, content to have had her silent, skittish company. I hadn’t heard a swear word in two weeks, and I was content with giving her a reward for her behavior.
The second night, when she didn’t eat, I took her plate along with my own, to a series of indignant gasps and pointless foot-stomps
The third night, she scarfed her food down quickly, like a dog with a bone, getting more of it on her shirt than in her mouth.
On the fourth night, she wore a bib, and I hand-fed her. I had bought those clothes special, after all, and was not about to let her ruin them so easily.
It was a trying time, to be sure. Just as she had to be careful of what she said to me (in my presence, at least), I too had to be careful of what I said to her. The wrong words would set her off, either to crying or to rage, and neither were acceptable at my table. And though I punished her for those mistakes, I also punished myself. After all, who can blame the student for the teacher’s folly?
For a whole month, we ate together in tense silence. Then, on the first hot night in June, everything changed.
Ginger gave up.
(Author’s Note: My deepest apologies for the lack of proper postings this past week; WordPress apparently marked all of my proper posts as drafts, and scheduled my sole draft for last monday. The error has been fixed now, and the next 12 updates are guaranteed.)
Over the course of my lifetime, many people have informed me that violence is never the answer. Some have said this while I have wrung their necks, others have said it in board rooms, safely hidden behind papers and red tape.
I will tell you, honestly and freely, that I enjoyed nothing quite so much as that first stern lesson I gave to Ginger. I can remember it clearly, and until the day she died, she remembered it as well; I was standing at the doorway, the floor covered with the remains of a shattered lamp, an overturned dinner, and drops of my own blood, and Ginger, bless her beautiful, innocent soul, was standing there, looking indignant and outraged, a ferocious animal. Her eyes blazed with the purest of hatred, and her lips were set in a self-righteous scowl.
She seemed to think, poor thing, that no one would dare hit her, or countermand her shrieks and demands for freedom. She even called me evil…but we all know now how laughable that claim was.
I was not her abductor…I was her savior.
The thrashing that followed Ginger’s angry stand was one of life’s little pleasures. A necessary pleasure, but a pleasure nonetheless. She wasn’t hard to overpower — without a lamp, she was hardly a handful! Each resounding smack of my palm against her flesh sent a thrill straight through me, and now, years later, I admit to still thinking about that night when I need a little extra material to make the girls happy at night.
Eventually, she couldn’t even stand. I left her on all fours, coughing and swearing weakly, green eyes unfocused. I took my time getting out the collar and leash — items that were meant to be toys for further along in our relationship, but were now regulated to the position of training aids. She was too exhausted to argue from our little romp, and in later years, she admitted to being turned on by the control. She ate the whole of her meal from that floor, on all fours, thanking me between bites (and being slapped, spanked, and punched when she didn’t!). I felt pride, that day, thinking how far a single beating had taken me.
Those that know me now would most likely wonder why, or even how, I could leave her punishment at the beating; I had let her eat her dinner, and what’s more, I even let her drink from a cup, instead of the toilet. I know that it is a flimsy, even petty excuse, but she was my first! I didn’t have the willpower to force her into the depths of deprivation that my later girls would experience. This kindness, I think, garnered me many points in winning Ginger over. At the same time, I may have been spoiling her a bit much…I certainly never showed so much concern for my other pets.
But she was a special case; my first, and the pride of my collection. More than that, the animal attraction that lit between the two of us left me with a nigh superhuman struggle against my own instincts. I almost took her many times that night, while leading her about on the floor, in search of the food she had spilled, and after, to clean up the mess she had made. I will tell you that she never threw another lamp, after having to pick up every piece. I wish she had. The blood on her lips, during our first kiss, was quite the sensuous experience.
I didn’t mean to kiss her, you understand. Perhaps it will make sense:
Picture yourself, a man of mild wealth, and newly unfolding power, with a brand new mistress kneeling on the floor, her head upturned. Spirited and willful most of the time, but now…vulnerable. So soft and pliant, with her head upturned, her red hair cascading down behind her, matched in color by the crimson dribble of blood from her perfect lips, eyes shut. Wouldn’t you kiss her? Or show your affection?
I thought so.
She actually kissed back, after being surprised. Bit a little as well. I thought it was harsh, and indeed, when approached about it later, my sweet Ginger admitted that she would have liked nothing more at the time than to bite my lip off and cause me pain. The admission earned her a mild beating, but she smiled through the whole thing. By that point, you see, we understood each other.
Our kiss ended when I pushed her back gently onto the floor. Then and there, I set our ground rules. Ginger learned her name, with little comment, and learned that she would be responsible for cleaning up any other messes the same as this…without medical attention for anything less than the most serious of injuries.
I believe my comment was, “Shit all over the room if you’d like, my dear…you’ll be saving me a feeding bill. Break all of your lights, and you’ll find the pieces with your tongue and live in darkness. Ginger…your life is mine, now. As is the rest of you.”
Violence, and threats thereof, solve many problems. Ginger’s stubbornness is simply a case in point.
There comes a time in every man’s life when he must face the facts and acknowledge that he is far deeper in the muck than he wishes himself to be.
For me, that time came on the third day of my cohabitation with the beautiful Ginger. I had not, you understand, ventured into her apartment since that first bitter fight. I had, however, spent many hours in the stairwell just beyond her door, listening to the sounds of her wild weeping and weary calls for help. My heart hung heavier and heavier with each silent vigil; after all, I had no recourse that would offer her a balm for her distress and pain. In order to help her get better, I could only allow her to get worse.
To my credit, I stayed there almost the entire time. Even when I was absent, my mind stayed behind, teasing at the puzzle she represented. The screams echoed in my ears that whole first day. They were the worst, on that first day. I could barely stand them, and could not escape them, hard as I might have tried. Often, I found myself crying alongside her, silently shedding a river of tears, just beyond her door. It seemed hopeless, and I could not think of any way to save her, to keep her whole and healthy.
By the second day, she had cried herself nearly dry, it seemed. It was much easier to bear sitting nearby when all that echoed from the room was soft sobbing. No more were the cries of blasphemy, no more were the shouts for aide from invisible conspirators; instead, there was simply soft, quiet sobbing. I took this change to be an encouraging one. It cheered me, knowing that she no longer cursed my presence, and because of this cheer, on the third day I began to prepare her food.
It was not, I admit, the finest of feasts; it did not compare in any way to the offerings I had made the first night. No, I had learned my lesson, and had no love of waste, besides. It was not romantic, or fancy, but truly, can you blame me? I had been scorned, then reviled, my own emotions led upon the wildest of roller coaster rides. Ginger, the very woman I had saved from the cold grasp of the outside world, scorned my presence, and failed to appreciate the largest, most romantic gesture that I’m certain anyone had ever made for her (in later years, she would confirm this from her own soft lips, while curled up at my feet). So, my caution dictated the fair that she was to receive. Mashed potatoes, a small bit of stew beef, and a glass of cold milk to wash it down. It was a basic, homespun meal, the type that no Irisher could be ashamed of.
It is one of the most shameful things that I must admit to within these recordings, but I sincerely contemplated lacing that meal with ketamine. While I have no love for drugs, or for women who must be controlled by them, I have even less love for the caterwauling and hysterical theatrics that women are so often prone to. In the end, it was frugal caution that stopped me. I was well off, and could take on more work if I needed it, but ketamine was a hard drug to get a hold of, and my supplies were severely limited. Our relationship was off to a rocky start, but it was not bad enough for me to leave the poor girl senseless…as much pleasure as that thought gave, from time to time.
With the food prepared, I made my way down to her rooms, tray in hand. I hesitated at her door, for a moment unsure of what name to call her by. To me, of course, she was Ginger, the shy beauty who had captured my heart, and who, in turn, I had captured. The type of name a poet could write sonnets about. But to her…why, she had been so out of sorts that she still only knew that mundane rag that the outside world had slapped on her. In the end, I chose neither. I used the first term of endearment that popped into my mind.
“Dear,” I called out to her, my voice soft and sympathetic, “I’ve brought a spot of food for you, if you believe that your stomach might hold it. Are you decent enough for me to enter?” It was, I assure you, a most noble attempt at civility, given the circumstances. Her crazed laughter and harsh words caught me quite off-guard, and I don’t think any could have blamed me for my reaction. I won’t lower myself to repeat the words she spoke that day. Ginger, my dear Ginger, was still untrained, and had not yet realized her place in the world. I will not sully her memory with those raw words of ignorance.
When she had finished telling me just where I could put the food that I made for her, I responded with the mildest rebuke my ardor would allow, “If that is how you feel, my dear, I’ll return in three days to offer you food again. Until then, if you become thirsty, I am sure you have found the toilet by now.”
I know, I know! It was petty of me, but even then, she had a way of creeping into my blood and setting my mind afire. I will be honest, even in that anger, there was something alluring about the thought of her, knelt naked over a toilet, lapping at the water like a dog (indeed, that very scene would happen in later years, filling me with much satisfaction). The words were not erotic to her ears, however. No, Ginger began to cry, penitent and begging for mercy, for food…for her dignity, which she discarded even while fighting for. I let her go on without interruption for a reasonable amount of time, while my anger cooled (perhaps two or three hours…though by Ginger’s retelling, it would have been a day and change!). When I thought she had begged enough, I began counting her pleas silently. At one hundred, I finally responded.
“My dear…move onto the bed and seat yourself. I will come in with your food, and if you beg nicely, I might even feed it to you by hand.”
I was a fool.
My lesson to you, my dear pupils, is this: Never lower your guard in front of a new woman, even when you believe that she is fully in your power. Especially when there are things for the little wench to throw. Like lamps.
A first date is a magical thing. To a young man, it is his first venture into a brand new world filled with the amazing creatures we call women. To a young lady, it is a confirmation of her womanhood, and a statement of her worth to those masculine mates who would take a chance at winning her hand.
Ginger and I, our first date…I am sure it was a day that she never forgot, and one that I will hold onto unto my own dying day, when ever and if ever it comes. For the better part of two months, I watched her. I breathed in her essence from a far, and a few times, to my shame, I even grew hard and masturbated to the sensual mental images of her tied and bound, or kneeling and subservient. This was not an innocent lust, I’m afraid to admit. It was poignant and visceral, filled with such things as compose the very zest of a full life. I watched and followed her everywhere I could, while safely remaining in the shadows, a complete stranger. I never got close enough to hear her voice while watching her; this I saved as a gift for myself, to be enjoyed upon our first date (It would not be until the second, however, that I would truly hear her speak coherently). My mind tried out many voices and situations, wondering which one would fit my pretty little vixen. Did Ginger have an irish accent? Or perhaps a down-home, country twang, like so many of the locals affected? The sweet taste of the unknown drove me towards climax night after night as I sat in my car, watching her. The anxiety added a bitter tinge to the whole affair, but it made it all the more desirable, nonetheless. Without stress, there is no tension. And without tension, well…who would bother with anything?
I learned many things, while watching her — she was single, or so it seemed (though that would soon change); she was kind, generous, and shy. She didn’t know many people, and while I never heard her words, I saw the movements of those luscious lips with a clarity that thrilled to no end. I was thankful, even then, of avoiding all contact while I prepared my home for her; had I done otherwise, I might not have waited until it was ready. She was that stunning. It would have been awful to see the whole of my romantic plans shot down in flame, just because of a little bit of impatience. Ginger deserved much better than that, and I intended to give it.
I had taken many precautions, you understand. Most of them were unnecessary, and some I wish I hadn’t taken, as they brought much more troubling attention than they were worth. Amongst other things, I forged a letter to the post office, sending her mail out to Hawaii; stopped her subscriptions to a variety of magazines…all so that nothing would pile up at her door while she was gone. I spoke to a coworker, who intimated, in the way of office gossip, that Ginger was heavily in debt, amongst other things. It seemed that no one had a high opinion of my Ginger. Of course, they didn’t know her as Ginger; they knew her by the name she held in the past. For the sake of her own love, and her own desire to escape that life, I shall leave that false name unsaid. It wouldn’t be long, of course, before she was Ginger in her own eyes, as well as mine. Regardless of what was to come, I spent many days working out the various issues of her abduction, making certain that no one would miss her. There were many things that I couldn’t do, but those that I could, I did. I wanted there to be nothing left for her to worry about, to tie her pretty little mind to the outside world — even in lust, I was a romantic to the end, I suppose.
For her comfort, I padded the trunk of my car. If I could afford not to use it, I would — but I had no illusions about that first date. Indeed, I looked forward to the struggle, the first breaking that would lead her on the way to being mine. I had no doubts that she would be perfect, you see. Not then, and not ever afterwards. Sometimes, when there is so much tension, so much delicious and savory need…one doesn’t have to question the truth, or the way the world works.
I was intent on offering her the best of things. When the agreed upon night (agreed upon by me, myself, and I!) came around, I cooked a lavish dinner, fine steak, with sides of sweet potatoes and spinach, and poured two glasses of sweet red wine. I wanted to do things right, you understand. It didn’t matter that my intentions weren’t wholesome, by traditional standards. In my own eyes, and in the eyes of the Ginger that would be forged from that first night onwards, they were the purest and greatest of all. We were, after all, destined to be joined in True Lust, a state far more glorious than the sniveling patter of True Love that so many claim to hold. There would be no lies between us. I was certain of it, and for that sweet, innocent girl, I prepared a sumptuous feast.
Before I could bring her to the feast, of course, I had to first get her into my car. This part had troubled me for a few days prior, but in the end I turned to the local underground. I found someone…a local veterinary student, I like to imagine, who was hard up for cash…who was willing to sell me ketamine. You know, I almost think that he believed my sad story, about wanting to help an ailing old pooch sleep at nights. I’ll never know, of course…he didn’t live more than a few months longer. Strange thing, that fire…but it wasn’t my doing, I assure you. Honest.
The ketamine worked like a charm. On her way home from work, Ginger felt a mosquito bite her neck. I saw her slap at the dart, just once before she tumbled over. I think, perhaps, I used a little too much…but I’d spare neither cost nor largess for my mistress-to-be. It would be ungentlemanly, after all. It was here that I realized the first of my mistakes: I had parked the car a good block away to avoid suspicion…but in the end, it is far more suspicious to drag a body for a block, than it is to park near someone fainting. Luckily for me, no one saw that pitiful struggle of mine, half-carrying, half-dragging her away. By the time I got her into the trunk, her clothing was torn, and I even noticed a few bruises on that perfect skin. It caused me no end of worrying, I assure you. Before closing the trunk, I took a few minutes to look over Ginger, examining her for anything wrong. I grew an erection at the sight of her lying there. She was so peaceful, so innocent…so completely mine. I didn’t act on it, though. We were on a date, and protocol had to be observed. I wanted this relationship to work out. So I simply kissed her forehead and closed the trunk, leaving her unbound. Then we drove off together, as happy a couple as there ever was.
I learned of the second mistake about ten minutes later, while en-route to my own abode, and her new residence. Even in her drugged and delirious state, Ginger knew that she was being taken away from the world she knew…and she protested, banging against the back of the car at every stop. I worried the whole way down main street, that someone would hear that racket. Again, however, the fates were with me, and none impeded our lover’s progression.
Getting her into my own home was easy, but shameful. I lied to her pretty eyes, telling her that I had rescued her from a madman, and if she’d only come inside, we could call the police. Drugged, confused, and battered, she listened well enough…and even followed me downstairs, to her new apartment, without complaint. Here, my third mistake occurred: That feast that I had so lovingly, so painstakingly provided? She didn’t like it. Not, she didn’t like the taste, but rather, she didn’t like the sight of it. When she saw that, and heard the soft music I put on, her brain knew something was wrong. Food found its way to the floor, and a wine bottle almost took out my head. Thankfully, some more ketamine calmed her a little…enough for me to place her into her bed, clean the mess, and hastily retreat.
For hours that night, I sat just within the soundproofed area that would be her living space, and listened. She bawled and bawled, making a ferocious noise that no proper date should ever make, and it struck me to the core. In retrospect, she may have been better off had I gagged and bound her for those first few days. But…I was young, and she was shiny and new. I couldn’t be blamed. Not for the state of things.
I will be the first to admit that our first date didn’t go as planned, but already I was learning many new things. For example, common decency is wasted on a first date. All a woman remembers is that she wasn’t asked to come. That she was there by the divine will of someone greater than herself. And all women, yes, even my beautiful Ginger, hate to feel as if they have no choice.
I waited almost three days before cooking her food again — it made a much better impression, the second time.