(I have a story idea and played around with some things for this writing challenge. It is just a story, right?)
“I am not yours.”
A brief pause on the line, the quiet static of the call stretching across the ocean before his voice came through and completely dissolved my resistance.
“You say that,” his tone just the right amount of tease and smirk to it coming over the line. Smooth. So smooth, and with that British accent that tells me more than he does, “But who was the one who gave herself thirty-two spanks just because I told her to?”
I leaned back against the headboard, a slow, teasing smile playing on my lips. “Maybe I was just playing. Having fun at surrendering?”
The brat always likes to tease, doesn’t she? I could almost hear him thinking it. She has big words. She loves to poke at his sadist, knowing he’ll take the bait, knowing he’ll show up and give her the exact energy she needs.
“I think you’re just saying that because you’re scared,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that heavy, deliberate register that makes my pulse jump. “You are mine. You have always been mine. You don’t want to admit it because you don’t want to feel so out of control with your need to submit to me. But neither of us is in control, Baby. We found each other for a reason.”
He was saying the words I told myself forever. There is a reason for this. There is that pull. The gravity between us is pushing us closer, so why does it also pull us apart at times? I saw it as some kind of tragedy. An epic tale that wasn’t about abandonment or ghosting but a love that spanned time and crossed oceans.
I heard him chuckle, one more reason I couldn’t stop myself from wanting him. I had turned on the television earlier, trying not to think about him. Trying to put distance between us. Something wasn’t right here, but I hadn’t put my finger on it yet.
Of course, The Goonies pops up just before he calls, reminding me of the conversations. Reminding me about meeting at the well and all the dirty things he wanted to do to me there.
I remember those conversations well. The references to Scooby-Doo, too. These were the things that scared me. I thought I had found someone who was paying attention, maybe too much attention, studying and stalking me, but didn’t we say that was just devotion? Just research?
On the phone, his voice was still flowing, smooth and possessive. “You see? You’re quiet now. You know I’m right.”
What do I say to that? Was it fate? Is he right? I can be right, too.
“You’re right about one thing, Daddy,” I whispered softly into the receiver. “Neither of us is in control.”
He did everything right to make me his. I wanted it so bad; I held on so tight. Maybe smothered the fire and watched it burn out. At least it won’t burn me now.
In a shaky breath with no confidence at all, I lied, “I am not yours.”
