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His shirt

“Please,” I cried as he resumed his act of patting. I feel his weight on the bed, and my heart skips a beat.

"I can't," he whispered, "and more than that…I don't want to."

For a moment, only my low, painful sobs and sobs broke the silence that accompanied his assertion. The darkness made it even more unbearable.

His breath, my breath, together, resounded in the solitude.

“Tell you what I'm going to do, and I'll untie you and clean up the swelling and bruising. I don't want you to wake up in a puddle. I'm really sorry about the blow to the face," his finger caressed the side of my injured cheek, "but that's what happens when you resist without thinking about the consequences."

"The puddle?" I said panicking. “I don't want to be put in the water. Please," I begged, "let me go." His voice was too calm, too polite, too casual, and too…reminiscent of Hannibal Lector in The Silence of the Lambs.

"You need to take a shower, honey." That was his terrifying answer. Hello Clarice…

All I
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