The Blindfold Never Came Off

The blindfold never came off.

She remembered what the world looked like, but she did not see it anymore. Every morning when she woke up she would think of it. A crackling fire. A tangerine. A bumblebee. The grass. The sky. A field of flowers, deep rich purple. She had not seen a thing in years; she had lost track of time. But every morning when she woke up she thought of these things, and every night before she went to bed, too.

Sometimes she woke up in bed with him. Sometimes he pushed her off of it in the middle of the night, and she woke up on the floor. She didn't know if he did it on purpose or not. Sometimes she would wake up to him pushing himself inside of her, slowly and firmly, and when he noticed she was awake he would stop, until she nodded. And then he would continue, moving slowly until his hips touched hers, and then back out again, and then back in. Even if she didn't nod he would continue. He had her for him. He could not see her eyes, but he could read her face, and he knew her better than anyone. Sometimes, when he let her sleep in bed with him, he would roll over and wrap his arms around her, pulling her close to his chest, and whisper in her ear, "Red." And she would answer one of two ways. If she said, "Orange," he would pull her over to him. If she said, "Violet," he would just bury his face in her hair and go back to sleep. But he never took off the blindfold.

Fire. Tangerine. Bumblebee. Grass. Sky. Flowers.

She spent most of her days in bed, unless he took her with him. There was not much else she could do, not without seeing. He told her stories sometimes, if he felt like it. He told her about how there were some people in the world who could not see even if they did not have fabric around their eyes. They would have a dog to guide them, or use a stick to feel what was on the ground in front of them. He did not ever get her a dog or a stick. He would put a soft leather strap around her wrist, with a short rope attached to it, whenever he needed to bring her anywhere. And he would hold onto it, and he would pull her along with him until they could sit. She had learned to use her ears, her nose, her fingers. She would sit at his feet, leaning her head against his knees, and listen to the people around them. There would always be people. He only brought her places if he wanted to show her off. He would put his hand on her head, stroke her hair back, fiddle with the blindfold. The first time it happened a spark of excitement went through her belly; she thought he was going to take it off. He noticed, and she could almost see him smile when she heard him chuckle. And then he tightened the knot and went back to stroking her hair.

She learned to listen to the world around her. When she was alone the silence crept up her spine, twirling around her neck and making her shiver. He rarely left her alone, but when he did she could always hear him come home, his feet outside as he walked to the door, the knob clicking as it opened, the lock sliding black into place. She could always hear him breathe, whenever he moved around the room she could hear his footsteps, she could hear him humming to himself, she could hear him coming towards her and going farther away. When they were with people she could hear how many there were, just by how loud the rumble was in her ears. Even with one side of her head pressed against his knee and the sound of his fingers rustling through her hair she knew how to listen, to count how many people were talking to him, hear which ones were men, which ones were women, which ones talked with velvet or venom in their voices. Which ones talked about the weather, or the guardians, or the earth. Which ones talked about her. She always knew when they were talking about her. Even if she couldn't hear them she would know by the way his fingers stiffened slightly in her hair, or went to the blindfold to make sure it was still in place. She knew the difference between a woman's footsteps and a man's, between the sound a shoe made on carpet and on wood and on marble, between ice clinking in a glass and a fork scratching against a plate. She knew how to listen.

Fire. Tangerine. Bumblebee. Grass. Sky. Flowers.

She knew how to smell, too. She knew his smell, she lived in his smell, and she knew the smell of a room full of people. It was not always a bad smell, per se. It was alcohol and tobacco, it was perfume and food. She did not know for sure, but sometimes she thought he took her to different places. He never told her where he was taking her, he just put the strap on her wrist and pulled her along. But she could tell, sometimes, by the way the places smelled, the sounds of the voices inside of them. And when he would feed her, he would let her smell every bite before she took it. Sometimes she would forget, and he would feed her a bite of one thing, and another, and another, and she would get used to it, and then suddenly he would feed her a bite of something else, and she would be startled. He would not let her spit it out, even if she did not like it. She had to swallow every bite that came into her mouth. If she did not like something he would not give her any more, but if he held something under her nose and then put it in her mouth, it would have to go down. She knew how to smell, people and places and food.

Fire. Tangerine. Bumblebee. Grass. Sky. Flowers.

And she knew how to feel. She knew how he felt whenever he touched her, by the way his fingers ran over her skin. When he was stroking her hair and his fingers slowed or stiffened, he was annoyed, or anxious. When he scratched her head he was happy, or at least content and absent-minded, listening just like she was, but not as well, he didn't know how. When he rolled a lock of hair between his fingers he was interested in what the other people were saying, and she liked when he did this, because that meant he might say something too. When they were with other people and he lifted his hand off of her head and put it on her cheek, it meant that he wanted to show her off. She did not have to do anything; it just meant that the people he was with were looking at her, and she would lean her head into his hand and feel his fingers slipping over her nose, her mouth, her neck. And she would listen to what the people would say about her, and feel for the way his fingers felt on her skin, to see if he was happy with it. When they were alone, in bed together at night, sometimes he would let her lie on her side facing him, and she would run her fingers over his face, tracing the ridge of his eyebrows, around the shape of his eyes as his lashes brushed against her nails; down his cheekbones and his jaw, finding the stubble on his chin; she would touch his nose, trying to find what shape it was in, trying to see where the hairs on his cheeks stopped and started. If she got her fingers too close to his lips, though, which she could not help herself from doing, he would take them into his mouth and bite down gently, and then move her hands away and roll her over so she was facing away from him again. And even though she could not see him, she thought that with all of her touching she knew what he looked like; she had felt him enough.

Fire. Tangerine. Bumblebee. Grass. Sky. Flowers.

He took her to very many places. At first it was the same place: the place that smelled like tobacco and something else. She did not know what the something else was, until a few hours into one of the first few evenings they had gone there he leaned down and held something in front of her nose. The smell of it filled her nostrils and she coughed, trying to lean away, but she was sitting on the floor in between his legs and the cushion of the couch was there. She heard him laugh, felt his hand in her hair, and something poked her lips. He pushed it in her mouth gentle, but it wasn't food, it felt like a cigarette. She had only tried a cigarette once, and did not like it, so she knew he would not give one to her again. But she knew to breathe in, and the strange smell turned into a taste, and he leaned down and pressed his lips to her head and whispered, "Good puppy."

The words made her feel weak. It was only later that he told her it wasn't the words but the strange cigarette that made her weak. It wasn't a cigarette, he said, it was a joint, and it was a kind of drug that he and his friends were trying that night. He called them his friends, which she thought was strange. She did not think he had any friends. He only had her.

She had smoked the whole joint that night, and it had made her feel bubbly and light. She felt as though she could not concentrate on what was being said; usually she was such a good listener, but now she felt as though she was floating out of her body. But she could not see anything, of course; so she was alone, drifting in a cloud above the place. It was just a place to her, but she could hear and smell and feel everything around her. He had put her in a dress that night. She liked dresses, because she liked her legs being free so she could stretch. He liked her dresses, too; oftentimes she heard the people that they were with comment about a dress she was wearing. As she floated, though, the dress melted away, and her body melted away, that body that he loved, and she was not a thing anymore, she was not a person or an object or anything physical. She was just a wisp of smoke in the place, and she curled around his neck so she could sit on his shoulders and rest her head on his heart. In real life she lifted her hand and put it on his face, and she could feel him smile under her fingers before he took her hand and put it on his lap instead, and she dimly heard someone say, "She liked it."

She did like it. She liked being smoke, but he brought her back to her body when he took her home. He closed and he locked the door behind them, and then he reached out for her and he caught her. She giggled; you could not catch smoke. But he did, he could do anything, and he ran his hands down her arms and caught the rope of the leash around her wrist. And then he moved, pulling her a little as he got farther away, and she stumbled, feeling dizzy and light still. And he caught her again, and put her on the bed, and she could hear his fingers moving and bumping as he tied the rope to the headpost. She put her hand up to try and feel the knot, but her fingers were clumsy. Then she felt him climb into bed with her, him in between her legs this time, and he leaned over her, pressing his lips to her cheek, running his tongue under the blindfold over her skin, and she smiled, trying to reach it. The leash caught one of her hands short, and she raised her other hand, but he caught this one too and put it back on the bed. His other hand pushed up her skirt, and he whispered, "Red."

The word made her weak, and she did not say anything, just smiled. She did not have to say anything; she knew that tone of voice of his, she could feel it as he pushed into her. It was not quite desperate, but it was determined, and he was not waiting for an answer. He was not waiting for her to say orange, no, he was just telling her, as a courtesy, what he was going to do, and he did not have to, not when he had that tone of voice. Violet was the word that he had chosen for her, when he had first gotten her. If she ever wanted him to stop, she could say it, and he would stop. No questions asked, no anger, no guilt. If she said the word, he was done. When he felt like asking, he would say red. But he did not always say red, because he never had to ask. All he had to do was take.

He moved inside of her that night, and she moved inside of herself as well. She felt she was dreaming as he touched her. She was his, she belonged to him, she was his puppy and his violet and whatever he needed her to be. She did not know that he would not take the blindfold off; as he pushed himself further into her he put his hand on her face, covering her eyes, so even if she didn't have a blindfold she would not have been able to see him. She had been given it when she was younger, when she was waiting. And since then, it never came off.

He told her the next morning that she had been high. She still felt it a little bit, that weightlessness in her lungs and in her head like she was a bird. The night before as he had run his hands over her body, ripping the dress that she had liked, she didn't know what it looked like but she had liked wearing it, but he had ripped it and she had felt as though she were flying. The two of them together, him on top of and her around him, she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper inside of her, and he sighed. She loved when she could make him sigh. He put his hands on her hips and guided her, and she moved the way that he had taught her, and he sighed again, shaky, in her ear, as his tongue traced her jawbone and then he bit her ear. She had been high, he told her, from the joint, and he had been a little bit high too, which is why he had been so gentle. She liked when he was gentle; she had told him that before, since that night, that she liked the way it felt when she was high and flying and he was following her. He laughed when she said so, and hummed a little song to himself thoughtfully before saying that perhaps it would happen again.

That was the first time she had been high, but it was not the last. His friends knew that she had liked it, and they kept bringing him the drug. He did not always want her to take it; he gave it to her most of the times, but not all. It was not the first time he had tied her down, though, and it certainly was not the last.

The second place they went to was the place made of metal. She did not know, of course, that it was made of metal, but that is what it felt like, under her knees and her hands, and it is what it sounded like, whenever anyone walked by her, she could hear their shoes clicking on the metal. That was the first time that she did not sit at his feet, and she did not like it. She had been alone, the whole night, and she could hear him, she knew that he was near, but she could not feel him. He had told her to walk, slowly, five steps forward, and then stop. She felt the ground change under her bare feet, and then she felt his hands on her shoulders, running down her arms again, this time taking the dress with him. It pooled at her feet, and she did not say anything, but her eyebrows furrowed. People had looked at her before, she knew that. She knew that he took her places to show her off. But he had never shown her off like this. He was jealous, he told her after, when she asked him why he had done that. But he wanted to make himself more jealous, and to make the other people jealous too. They could look, but they could not touch.

She felt the dress on her feet, and then she felt her wrist jerk a little bit. He was pulling on the leash, but not pulling to walk; he was fiddling with it, and only later did she realize he had tied it to something. She did not realize it until she tried to sit and her hand would not come with her; he came back to her, as close as he could get, and he adjusted it for her so she could sit. And then he disappeared again, leaving her alone with her blindfold and her hand still tied, but she didn't know what it was tied to. She just kept listening for his voice, rocking back and forth slowly, wondering why no one was touching her. Usually no one touched her because she was with him. But now she was alone. It was not until she heard a noise, and jumped, and made a startled noise of her own, and then she heard a laugh, that she realized where she was. The first noise, not hers, had been the sound of something metal running against something else metal, lots of other things metal; a cane running against the bars of a cage. He had put her in a cage, where everyone could see her, but no one could touch her. And he could see them seeing her, her, who was supposed to be just for him, even though she could not see them. She could hear them, and she could smell the alcohol and the smoke in the air, she could hear the voices twisting like smoke, but she could not see them. She wasn't sure how much she liked this at first, this being alone. She missed him. She wanted to put her head against his knee and feel his fingers in her hair, but he just left her there, for almost the whole night, all by herself. She could hear footsteps passing by; sometimes they slowed, sometimes they stopped, she could tell they were looking at her. She listened for him; she heard his breathing, slow and even and gentle near her. Even though he had left her alone he stayed nearby almost all night. He watched the people watching her, watched the people wanting her, but no, she was not for sale, he told countless people who asked. She was his. She sat on the floor of the cage, rocking back and forth, slowly, feeling nothing but the metal and the strap on her wrist and the cold air on her skin, and she listened to the people. It was the first time she had ever heard someone call him any name. "Is she yours, River?" asked a deep voice, a man, and she was prepared for whoever River was to say no, because she was not River's, she was his. But he was the one who answered, with a smile in his voice that she could hear even if she could not see, and he said, "Yes. Look, don't touch."

They had gone to many different places over the past few years. Since then she heard people call him many names. River was her favorite, though. She never said it to him, she never called him anything, she did not have to. If she ever spoke, he knew she was talking to him. But from that day forth she thought of him as River, her River, ever-changing, ebbing and flowing and taking her places, it was the first name that she ever associated with him, and it was her favorite.

She thought about that night very often, trying to figure out if she liked it or not. She liked to hear the people, but she can hear people anywhere. She knew he was there, but he was far away. Close enough that she could hear his voice when he spoke, but she could not touch him, and that was what she did not like. She liked the nights when she sat close to him and could feel him against her skin. She even liked when they were home, more than she had liked sitting on the floor of the cage, because when they were home she was his, and she could sit and listen to nothing but him as he moved around. In the cage she was alone, even though she knew he was near; she was alone, tilting her head back and forth, searching for him. She did not like the searching part that much. But later on in the evening, when she finally heard the strange noise again and then felt the strap around her wrist moving a little bit, she felt flutters in her stomach. She wanted to touch someone, to touch him, and then he reached out for her. She did not know if they were alone; she could not see, and she did not care. It had become too much for him, she knew. All of those people looking at her, even if they couldn't touch they were looking and he could see the want in their eyes. But she was his, his alone, and after all of that night that she had sat alone he put his hands on her and he laid her down and he kissed her, he put his hand on her neck, he put his fingers in her mouth, he put himself inside of her, and he was hot and he was like fire. Red. He could not stand it any longer, people looking at her, so he took her back. She became soft and wet and melted like putty in his hands, she could feel the metal under her back and she could smell the drink on his breath and she could hear him, sighing in her ear, she loved when he sighed at her, when she could make him sigh. She made a noise too, on the floor of the cage, and tried to move her legs, but he shook his head, bumping his nose against hers, and put one hand on her knee until she stilled. And then he took both of her wrists in one of his hands and brought them above her head, pinning her there and opening her up, and he used his other hand to touch her, over the curves and the muscles and the bone, he felt every inch of her inside and out and she knew him, better than she knew anyone. She was, after all, his.

That part she liked. She did not like the cold and the alone of the cage, but afterwards, when he took her back with greedy hands, she liked that part. It was a challenge as much for him as it was for her. He put it on both of them so that it would be that much better when it was over, and it was.

At very first, right after he had chosen her, she had been nervous. She did not know what he wanted, especially when he brought her home and told her to sit. She sat, feeling a bed underneath her, and waited for him to take the blindfold off, but he didn't. He never did. She still remembers the last thing she saw before her world went dark: it was the face of the woman who smiled at her as she wrapped the black silk fabric around her head. And after that, that silk fabric was all she knew, except for him.

She slept next to him the very first night, but he did not touch her. She thinks now that he must have been nervous too. But the next day he told her the rules, the red and orange and violet rules. Red is first and orange means keep going. Violet is last, so if she says it, it's over. She always wondered if he was ever going to put meanings to the colors in between, but he never did. He just kept bringing her out to places, first to the place where she got high, and they went to that place often. At first it was the only place they went. Then they went to the place with the cage, and that was a night that she thinks about often, trying to figure out if she liked it or not. Then they went back to the first place a few times, where he would sit and talk with the people as she leaned her head against his leg, and it was familiar and it was soft.

The next new place they went to was the place with the water. It was not something that she was expecting. He always washed her, every few nights, whenever he washed himself. He would rub his hands through her hair, and afterwards he would brush it until it fell out in his hands. He had not cut it since he got her, and it was growing longer and longer. She wondered if he liked it like that, or if he was going to want to cut it anytime soon. But the washing was always the same. This new place, with the water, it was different. She could hear music when they went in, but not much else. It did not smell of alcohol or smoke; instead it smelled of roses; flowers. And her toes curled in a soft carpet; she imagined it was red.

He undressed her. She shook a little as he did, because the air was slightly cool. But he might have thought she was afraid, because he told her not to worry. No one was dressed where they were; then he took the leash off her wrist and put her hand flat on his chest, against his bare skin. See, he said, he was not dressed either. And then he took her hand and led her to a stair, step up, step up, good puppy, now step down. When she stepped down she gasped; her foot hit water, almost too hot, but she did not pull away, because she heard laughter around her, and she heard him laugh, too. And then she heard someone else splash into the water with her, and then arms wrapped around her and pulled her down. His arms, of course, she knew immediately, and her whole body fell into the hot water, steaming around her, she could feel it, except for her head. He pulled her to him, settling her in between his legs. This was the first time she had ever sat like that, leaning against him with her whole body, wrapped in his arms, and she liked it. She put her head back against his shoulder, and he fixed the blindfold for her. She could hear other people also getting into water, but it seemed they had different pools, because they remained still. The water was still hot, and the whole night it never cooled down. He talked to the people with them; they all called him different names, but none of them said River. She closed her eyes under the blindfold, letting her head lean heavy on his shoulder, wrapping his arms around her tight so that she wouldn't slip away. She could listen to the words they all were talking if she wanted to, but she just wanted to feel the rumble in his chest as he spoke, the words inside of him, she wanted to catch them before they got away, but she could not. She still tried, lying there almost perfectly still as time kept passing, until he suddenly unwrapped one of his arms from around her and put his hand on her cheek. "Are you asleep?"

She shook her head slightly, and he chuckled. She smiled, feeling it against her back, and then he wrapped his arms around her again, but different, and he stood, lifting her out of the water as he did. The air seemed positively frigid now, and she shivered, clinging to him as he steamed in the air. One of the other people there laughed and said, "She's practically turned pink."

Pink. That was a color she had not thought about. She had almost forgotten about pink. For so long it had just been fire, tangerine, bumblebee, grass, sky, flowers. Pink was not on the list. What was pink? What could she add? But she did not want to add anything to her list, because it was the list she thought of the first day she had been with him, listening to him putter around making food for the two of them. She had still wondered by that point if he was ever going to take the blindfold off, but if he never did she tried to make a list in her head of things that she wanted to remember, and that was what she came up with. She did not want to change it now. And, of course, the blindfold never came off.

The tips of her hair had gotten wet, and they lay on her shoulders now, cold, and a drop of water tricked down her back as he stepped out of the water with more splashes. She shivered again, pressing her face into his shoulder, and he leaned his head and rubbed it against hers as he went. Before they left the room, though, someone spoke to him; the same man who had called her pink. He said, "Will you ever give her up, Matthew?"

That was one of the other names for him that she heard often. She still preferred River, and she still called him River in her head. She had not worked up the courage to say it to him yet, because she did not know what he would say if she did. She did not know if he would laugh, or he would tell her not to call him that, so she just did not call him anything. The man today, though, called him Matthew, and he responded to it easily as he turned back. "Why would I? She's mine."

"She could get you something," said another voice, a woman's voice, and she shifted in his arms. He adjusted her, and she could feel him shake his head. "She's not for sale."

"We all say that at first," said the man. But he just laughed and turned away, and brought her out of the room.

He wrapped her in a towel, and then he moved away. She could not see anything, of course, and she could not hear anything, either. His feet were too quiet on the carpet under them. She just stood there, clutching the towel to herself, shivering, as he moved around. She did not know what he was doing, but eventually he came back, and he rubbed the towel over her, her shoulders and her arms and between her legs all the way down to her toes, and then put her dress back on over her head. He fixed the blindfold and put the strap around her wrist, and took her home.

He made her dinner that night. She could tell that he made it instead of getting it from somewhere, because he made noise. He sang to himself as he cooked, and she could hear the boiling water, the fire crackling. She could hear the words that he sang, but she did not know what they meant. He sang of mountains and valleys, of trees rising up to the sky. She had seen trees before, she thought. She had seen the sky before, and she had seen grass, but not a mountain. He never sang of flowers, purple or not.

When he was finished he came to her where she was sitting on the bed, and kneeled down in front of her. She tilted her head down at him, and he held something up in front of her nose for her to smell. She could not tell what it was, and he put it in her mouth. It was good. He put his plate to the side and laid the fork down, and she realized how hungry she was. But he did not give her another bite; instead he sat up and leaned over her. She could smell him, she took a deep breath in, and then his hand slid up her leg, and he pushed a finger inside of her. She gasped when he did, not expecting it, but he just kept moving. He had his other hand braced on the bed, behind her, so she could not lie down. He put another finger inside of her, and he rubbed, slowly, back and forth. She could feel wetness leaking out from between her legs, and she felt flutters building in her stomach, and then he stopped.

She almost moaned when he did. He left his fingers inside of her, but he just put his chin on her head and said softly, "Stay."

She did not move. She was trying not to move. She was just sitting as still as she possibly could, feeling his fingers inside of her, his other arm wrapped around her. She was still hungry, but he had other ideas for now. After a few moments of sitting still he moved again. He curled his fingers inside of her, so they brushed against her, and a noise escaped her mouth. He had found the right spot and he knew it, she could almost see him smile as he curled his fingers back and forth, gently stroking against the wall of her inside. Her mouth was open, she was sighing, she could not catch her breath, and then once again he stopped.

She moaned, and he laughed, pressing his lips against her head. And then he moved his other arm, the one from behind her, and he moved. His fingers were still but she could still feel the pressure of him moving, and she did not know what he was doing until he held another bite of food under her nose. She opened her mouth, and he put it in, and she chewed, and he stroked his fingers inside of her again.

"Stay," he said softly again, and she screwed up her face, wrinkled her nose, tried to squeeze her lips shut, but she could not stop another moan as he touched her. His thumb came to her on the outside, and he found the right spot there, too, and she could feel it all building inside of her. It always started in her legs, in her thighs right nearby, but it wound its way up around his hand into her belly, and then rose through her chest into her lungs. She took a long breath in, and then she blew it out, and he knew what she was doing. His fingers stopped again, and he pressed his forehead against hers and whispered, "Stay," but it was too late. She could not keep still, and she leaned her head back, away from him, and everything that was building came out of her mouth. She heard him inhale as she did, and then when she was finished, when she was gasping for breath he sighed. It was not the good sigh, though; she knew he was disappointed. But he just said, "We'll try that again soon," and he gave her her dinner.

She slept on the floor that night, because he was disappointed. It was a little while before they tried it again. In the time in between, he took her back to the first place a few times, and gave her another joint to get her high and go floating. She did not float away; she kept her arm firmly wrapped around his leg so she would stay anchored with him, and she listened as his fingers curled in her hair. She did not know what they were talking about; she knew the words, but not what they meant. It was the guardians; it was always the guardians. "They must know by now," said a woman, "that so many of you are running away, Damien."

Damien, that was him, that was her River. He answered to it, even though it was not his real name. River was not his real name either, she thought, and giggled to herself, leaning her head against his knee. He rolled a lock of hair in between his fingers and said, "There's not much they can do about it. They wouldn't dare chase after us, it's not in their order."

Another man laughed, deep and throaty. "There's not much you do here that's in their order."

She pressed her head against his knee, as if putting her ear to his leg would make her understand the words. She was rocking back and forth a little bit, and tried to still herself, but she could not seem to. He noticed, and put his hand on her head. "You're restless tonight, puppy."

"Give her something to do," said the woman, and she heard a noise, like the sound of skin on skin. The other man said, "Why don't you do it too?", and she did not know what they were talking about. But then he took a handful of her hair and gently pulled her up. She almost stood all the way, but he caught her, and brought her down so that instead of sitting by his legs she was in between them, and she heard the familiar sound of his zipper. She reached out her hands, and could not stop herself from giggling when she felt him. The other man made a funny groaning noise and said, "She laugh at you?"

"She laughs at everything when she's high," he answered, putting his hand on the back of her head. His thumb ran over the knot in the blindfold, so tight and old now that there was no undoing it, it was part of her face and her head now. He pushed her down, and she guided him into her mouth. The other man made a noise again, and she knew that the other woman was doing the same thing she was. She took him about halfway, feeling some hair tickle her nose, and then closed her lips and slid back up, and he sighed, scratching her head, he was happy. The other man said, "They tried to take this from you, Damien."

"They take everything from us," he answered, his voice light, because he was holding back a sigh, and she smiled, taking him in her mouth all the way now, and she sucked. He let it out, growing firmer, happier, he scratched her head, and the other man laughed. "Yeah. That's why we both left."

She did not know what he was talking about, as she traced the tip of him with her tongue, and his fingers clenched in her hair. She could feel it building up, she could practically hear it, it came from the soft parts of him under the hard parts, and she could feel it building in her own belly as she took him in and out of her mouth, using her tongue, feeling him stretch all the way to the back of her throat. She came all the way back out, took a breath, and found him with her tongue, and took him in her mouth again. He was still talking to the other man, as he put his hand on the back of her head and pushed himself all the way into her throat and held her there. She could hear his voice as his hand rested on her neck, and she tried to move her tongue a little bit to feel him, but he filled her so well that she could hardly move it. And then she heard the other man sigh, but it was less of a sigh and more of a groan, she did not like the noise the other man made. She felt sorry for his woman, that she had to listen to that all the time. Her own mouth was still around him, his hand on the back of her neck, but after a moment he let go, and she slid up, and down, and up again, using her tongue as his hands curled and pulled in her hair, and finally he sighed and she felt more of him in her mouth. The wet, sticky, salty, sweet part of him, that she tasted only every so often, and she drank every last drop.

He put his hand on her face, and she let him fall away, and then tilted her head up to the ceiling. Never more than in that moment had she wanted to see him. That was the closest she ever got to asking him to take it off; asking him why he never took it off; but she could not get the words out. She was still tasting him on her lips, on her tongue, and he took her face in his hands and said softly, "Good puppy," and pulled her up to kiss her on the forehead. She fell forwards so she was lying on top of him, and he laughed a little, adjusting her so she was more on the couch with him, finally, and could be comfortable, and he gave her another joint. A little while after that, sitting and talking with the other man and his woman, he carried her home.

They did not go out after that for a little while. They stayed at home, and he made her food and let her taste it, and he let her sleep in bed with him too. He left once, and came back a little while later, finding her still sitting on the bed where he had left her. She was not often completely alone, but when she was she would just sit and listen to the silence, and wait for him to return. When he did he made her dinner, she could smell it and her stomach growled, and she sat and she waited. He hummed to himself, bringing a plate over to her, and she heard him kneel down in front of her. "I didn't explain the rules."

She tilted her head.

"So it's not your fault, because last time you didn't know. This time, you'll have to play by the rules."

"What are the rules?"

He touched her knee, and then slid a hand up her leg and to the inside of her thigh. "When I say stay, you stay."

"Yes."

"If you stay, you get a bite to eat."

"Just one?"

"If you come, dinner's over."

She furrowed her eyebrows under the blindfold. He noticed, and smiled, and stroked her gently before pushing a finger inside.

So that was how they took dinner that night, one bite at a time. He knew how to make her shiver, with his two fingers on the inside and one on the outside, but he was training her something new. He said stay, and she bit her tongue, she dug her nails into her palms, she tilted her neck strange, anything so that she would feel something other than his fingers inside of her, stroking against the spot that he knew so well. She got one bite, and then another. It was pasta, she thought, little tubes, and she got one tube at a time. Once, twice, three times he told her to stay, and she stayed, and then after the fourth time, she had listened well, and he pulled his fingers out of her.

She made a noise, loosening her fists, and he took his hands off of her. "Good puppy."

He held another bite in front of her nose, and she sniffed it, and then opened her mouth. It was a bigger bite than usual, so it took her a bit longer to chew and to swallow, and when she was done, he went back inside of her.

A few more bites she made it, and she lost count. She was practically shaking, the sheet under her where she was sitting on the bed was soaking wet. She could not contain herself much longer, she thought, and after a few more bites he said, "Halfway done."

She could not make it. She was no longer hungry, she was no longer anything but hot, red like fire, for him. After halfway she managed to earn herself a few more bites, shaking so hard she could barely chew, biting her tongue by accident and tasting blood, and then all he had to do was move his fingers ever so slightly inside of her, and the wave came, crashing over her like thunder and drums, and she pulled herself away from his fingers, sighing, moaning, everything bubbling up inside of her and coming out of her mouth, and she could not stop herself, she could not stay any longer.

She fell back onto the bed, flat on her back, panting. He did not say anything for a long while, as she lay there, feeling the wet under her, he sat so still for so long in between her legs that she began to get nervous. Finally he stood, taking the plate, and said, "Better." That night, she slept on the floor.

Fire. Tangerine. Bumblebee. Grass. Sky. Flowers.

She did not know why he was training her. She did not ask. They kept going back to the first place. She got a joint a few times. She took him into her mouth a few times, and he would kiss her there too when they got home to thank her. Most times though, she just sat at his feet, leaning against the couch and against his leg, as he rested his hand on her head. The men called him Damien, Matthew, Arrow, River, Pietro, King, Seven, a different name every night; none of them were right. They played the game a few more times when they went home, whenever he made dinner, and she never got her full dinner. At the place, though, with the other people, she just sat and listened, smelled, felt. She could occasionally hear the voices of the other men's women, but she mostly did not speak. She only spoke if he asked her a question, which he almost never did. One night, the night that the other men were calling him Xander, she could hear three other men's voices, and two women. She thought that the third woman must have been quiet like her, until one of the other men said, "Harry, when will you get a woman?"

The third man did not even have one, she realized. He curled her fingers in her hair, but they stiffened quickly when the man called Harry answered, "Don't know. Maybe I'll borrow some of yours."

The other men laughed. He didn't. He was annoyed, she could tell, and she touched his foot gently. He did not react to her, but when the other men's laughter died down he said calmly but quietly, "She's not for sale."

"Come on, Xander," said another man. "We all share ours."

"Isn't that why we left the guardians?" he asked, an edge to his voice, and the same man answered with a laugh. "Yes, well, there they made us. Here, we choose."

"And I choose not to," he answered. "She's not for sale."

She gripped onto his leg.

"And anyway, we shouldn't be choosing."

Silence fell among them, and his fingers were clenched in her hair. But he did not pull, and she did not move, she hardly dared breathe. She knew they were talking about her, but she did not know why. She did not know who the guardians were. She did not know if the other women were listening either. Finally one of the other men, Harry, she thought, said softly, "Did she choose to be your bitch, Xander?"

"Yes," he answered quietly.

"If someone asked her if she wanted to leave, what would she say?"

"No need to speak in the hypothetical," he said after a moment. "Ask her."

"So confident," said the third man. "You won't let us have her, but you'll let us talk to her?"

"Talking to her and selling her are two very different things," he answered. She heard a rustling on the couch, and she could both hear and feel footsteps. She took a deep breath in, just in time to get a whiff of him, before another man knelt down in front of her. He smelled different, and his eyes on her felt different. She did not know how. He just looked at her for a moment, as the protective hand stayed on her head, and finally the man said, "What do you call him, puppy?"

That was a question she was not expecting. She did not know how to respond; she did not know entirely if he was speaking to her. But then he moved his hand from her head and put it on her neck, and he trailed one finger up her throat until it caught under her chin, tilting her face back and up towards him. "What do you call me, puppy, in your head?"

She thought for a moment; of course she knew the answer immediately, but she didn't know if it was right. But there was no other answer to give, so she whispered, "River."

"Oh," said the other man with a chuckle. But he just took her hand in his and pressed it to his mouth, so she could feel his smile. And then he dropped it, and said, "Would you like to go with Harry, puppy? Or Gren, or William?"

She shook her head. She did not want to go with any of them; she wanted to go home with him. She was his. He was right; she was his, she was not for sale, and he had chosen, early on, not to give her away. She was his. He chose what to do with her, and he chose to keep her with him every night, and she loved him. "No."

"Good girl," he said softly, putting his hand back on her head. And that was that.

River, her River. She did not know why they were so concerned with names. She had not had a name in years, and she was doing just fine. She did not know why they were so concerned with rules, either. Who could go with who, who could take who. There were no rules where she was, unless you gave yourself to someone who made them. She had given herself to River, her River, and he made the rules for her. The rules were that she should listen to him, and that was that. And that she was not for sale. And that the blindfold never came off. Those were the three rules. There were no rules about if she could or should talk, although it seemed that some other men had those rules for their women. She did not like to talk much; just to him, so she did not talk much in public, and it suited him just fine. The only rules were to listen, and that she was not for sale, and that the blindfold never came off.

But they kept going out. They went to the water place again, and the hot water burned her pink again as she sat on his lap in his arms. They kept practicing the game, to stay and stay and stay, and it took a while, it took many tries, but finally she managed to stay all the way through dinner. He did not tell her when she was done, when she had taken her last bite. Instead he kept his finger inside of her as she ate, and then he said, with a smile in his voice that she could hear, that she could feel, he said, "Come." And she exploded in his hands, and he kissed her and told her she had done a good job. She had listened. Before she had not listened; she had tried her best, but every time before she had broken the first rule. This time, finally, she had done it. She slept in bed with him that night.

There were no rules where she was, unless you gave yourself to someone who made them. She had given herself to him, and the rules were there for him to make, and for him to break, if he felt like it. He never actually said them to her; she just figured them out. She knew she was going to listen to him; when she had first decided to be given she was told what he wanted, and she agreed. She had never given herself to anyone before, and he had never had anyone, she thought. He did not tell her. He did not tell her anything, except the words. Red. Orange. Violet. These words reminded her of colors, and that was when she made her list. Fire. Tangerine. Bumblebee. Grass. Sky. Flowers. She hardly ever had to say the word violet to him, to tell him to stop. He took it slow and gentle at first, testing her limits and his own, and she did whatever he said. She always listened, and she took that to be the first rule. She heard the second rule for the first time the night with the cage, when he told the people who came up to look at her that she was not for sale. And the third rule was something she had not even thought about for years; of course the blindfold would not come off. Why would it? She did not know if everyone who gave themselves away to someone else got a blindfold. She had deduced from all the time that she had spent in the places with him that not all the women she heard had blindfolds. Once someone even asked him why, why he had never taken it off, and at that moment he had laughed. It was fairly early on, and she had been wondering the same herself, but she had never asked him. He had just laughed and said, "She likes it."

She did like it, to be honest. It was soft against her skin, and it was comfortable. She had grown used to it, she did quickly, and that was the third rule, she thought to herself. After a little while she began to think about the rules, and those were the three she decided on. She thought they were the three that he had decided on, too. Which was why he had become disappointed with her, when she could not listen to him, when she could not stay. She had broken the first rule. But it was he who broke the second.

"We all say that at first," said the man who called him Matthew, when he said she was not for sale. When he began to train her, when they began to play the game, she did not know why he was doing it other than he had found a new way to touch her. It was only until he had brought her to the fourth place that she realized what his plan was. She's not for sale. That's what we all say at first, isn't it, but then things begin to change. One night he put a dress over her head, and put the strap around her wrist, and pulled her along. They did not go to the first place where she would sit next to him, or the second place with the cages, or the third place with the water, but an entirely new place. She could not even picture it in her head; there was no sounds or smells or even anything to feel. He brought her through a door, and it closed behind them, and it was all black. Or white. Nothing to see or feel or hear. And then he pulled on the rope connected to her wrist, and her hand went up, and he took it in his own, and pressed it to his lips, and he murmured, "You're all I have."

And this surprised her, because she did not think it was true. He had his people that he talked to and his places to go, places that he didn't even bring her to, when he had left her alone. He had quite a bit of things: the home they lived in, the food that he fed her, the bed they slept on. And then he kissed her hand again, and he told her to walk. She took a few steps forward, and then he stopped and turned to her, and put his hands under her arms and picked her up. He sat her on a table, and then moved her around, and she felt something on her ankles. More straps. Her left foot and her right foot were flat on the table, and he wrapped straps around her ankles to keep them there. She moved slightly forward towards him, and he reached out for her face, and put his hand on her cheek, and said softly, "Good puppy."

And the door opened again, and she realized what he was doing, and he said softly, "Lie back."

"Stay."

"Lie back."

She lay back. She heard the footsteps of another man, she could tell it was a man, and she could feel him, his fingers that she knew so well, on her wrist, undoing the strap there. And she said again, "Stay."

"You can stay," said another voice. "First time?"

Yes, first time. She heard him sigh, not his good sigh, and then she felt the table shake a little bit. He had climbed up beside her, behind her, and she felt his hands on her head. He took it into his lap, stroking her hair back, and she could feel the other man at the end of the table, fiddling around as he got himself ready. "What's with the blindfold?"

"She likes it," he answered, rubbing her ear, and she opened her mouth, and then closed it. She wanted to look up at him, she wanted to see him, but she could not see him, she could not say anything, and he said softly now, "Stay."

The other man placed his hands on her hips, and she felt something press against her. She knew what it was; she made a slight noise, and he moved his hand from her head to her mouth. She felt her breaths coming fast, and he ran his fingers over her nose. He was just sitting there, he was watching, he was letting it happen, he was breaking the second rule. She was not for sale. Everyone who asked for her, he had told them that she was not for sale. But now he just ran his fingers over her face, and the other man ran his hands over her skin, over her legs and back up to her hips, and he pushed himself inside of her, and she made a noise.

She heard the other man laugh as she did, and he moved, pushing inside of her even more. She had never had another man inside of her before, and this man was not as good as him. No one could be, because no one knew her like he did. He knew how to move, and where to move, and where to touch. He knew how to press against her, to make her burn. This man, it seemed, had been with other women before, and thought she was the same. Or maybe he did not even think about her. He pushed himself all the way in, he was bigger than him. His hips touched her, and she made a noise, and his hands on her face brushed her hair back, and he whispered, "Stay."

But she did not even have to try. The man who was inside of her was not making her burn. He could not use her like he could. All he did was push, in and out, back and forth, hard and fast and hurt, and she felt her breaths coming fast, and then she felt something warm and wet inside of her. She moaned in pain. She did not want it there, she did not want some other man's warm and wet inside of her. And the man himself groaned, and she winced, it was a horrible noise, and she felt his hands on her hips, and her legs jerked, she tried to get away, she forgot she was tied down, and the man at the end of the table laughed. "Oh, yeah, that was definitely her first time."

He didn't answer. The man walked around the room for a little, doing something, she did not know, she just lay there, tied to the table, her head in his lap, and then the man said, "Thanks, Arrow."

He did not answer. The man opened the door, and left.

He did not say anything still. He just leaned his head down and pressed his forehead against hers as she fought for breath, and finally she said softly, "Why?"

And he sighed, but it was not the good sigh, nor was it because he was disappointed. He just seemed sad. "You're all I have."

And it was not that she was all he had and all he valued, but it was that she was all he had of value. She was not for sale, he kept insisting, over and over, at least at first; but it could not last. She should have known it would not last. She slept in bed with him that night, and in the morning he rolled over and wrapped his arms around her and said, "Does it hurt?"

"He wasn't good," she answered after a moment, and she heard him laugh a little bit, pressing his nose to the back of her head. "Can you do it again?"

"Why?"

"Because where I come from," he said softly, running his hand over her head. His finger caught on the blindfold, which had slipped a little in the night, and he fixed it. "Where I ran away from. Men and women are shared with each other. And that's why I left, and that's why I got you, so that I could have you all to myself."

"You didn't know you'd get me. I could have picked someone else."

"Well, I got lucky," he said quietly. It was the first time he had said anything like that to her. And then he said, "But it doesn't work, does it. Neither way works, not where I come from and not where we are. We have to find something else. But there's nothing else there."

"Yes," she said softly. "This is in between. I get shared, but you don't."

He was quiet, and she rolled toward him onto her back, making him move away from her a little bit. "Do you get shared?"

"No," he whispered, rolling over on top of her. She could feel his breath on her skin, his face was close to hers, he bumped his nose against hers, and said, "I'm just for you."

"I gave myself to you," she said softly. "Not to that man."

"You gave yourself to me," he said firmly, his fingers stroking along her shoulders from where he was leaning on his elbows above her. "So I get to give you to whoever I want."

She did not answer. She felt his body stiffen above her, and then relax, leaning more heavily into her, pressing her into the bed. He was quiet for a moment, he was thinking, she could tell, and then he said softly, "Violet?"

Once again she did not answer, and he put his chin on her head, on her forehead, and he said softly, "We're going to leave, puppy."

"Leave?"

"We're going to go away from here. And I need... I need you to help me. I need you to do this, so that we can leave. You're all I have."

She did not know which way he meant that, but she believed him. "Where?"

"I don't know yet," he said softly. "But we've been here for years. And it's not working. So we have to leave. We have to go."

She thought for a second. There were so many things that she knew he wanted to do, and there were things that they had not done ever since he got her. She lifted her hand and put it on his face, and she felt his lashes brush against her fingers as she moved them, tracing his cheekbone, his eyebrows, down his nose. She knew what he looked like, even though she had never seen him. She had never met a more beautiful man. She had picked him for a reason. "I'm all you have."

"I want us to go away," he said softly. "And I need you to help me."

She did not answer, putting her fingers on his lips, and he opened his mouth and bit them. And then he pulled his head away and said, "Do you want to go away?"

"I'll follow you."

"But do you want to?"

He had never asked her before what she wanted. It was never part of the rules for him to listen to what she wanted. She did not want to lie on that table again, unless he was there. She did not want to do anything unless he was there. She would follow him. "You have to stay with me."

He put his forehead on hers again, and said, "I don't know if I can."

"You have to stay with me."

"Okay," he said this time, quietly, but she knew he meant it.

Fire. Tangerine. Bumblebee. Grass. Sky. Purple.

She went with him to the fourth place quite often. She did not ever hear that other man's voice again. But she heard plenty more. She felt even more men inside of her. She knew now why he had trained her, to stay, stay, stay, until it was time to come. At first it was just one at a time, and he sat on the table behind her with her head in his lap. And she knew he watched, because she could feel him moving. Every time a man grasped her hips and pushed himself inside of her her body would move with the pressure, and he would move under her head, but she would just close her eyes under the blindfold and listen to him breathe, feeling him stroke her hair. She was good at listening and at feeling already. Now she learned to take everything in, and then separate it. She could hear the men at the foot of the table, doing to her what he should have been the only person doing to her, and she could feel it. But she ignored it. She just listened to him, felt his fingers in her hair, and took deep breaths in, at the same time as him. Sometimes a noise would escape her mouth, and it would even surprise her, because she was not feeling whatever it was that made her make the noise. She was just focusing on him.

At first it was just one at a time, as he sat behind her and he watched. She was for sale. He had said, over and over, he had insisted for years, that she was not for sale. But now she was. And that meant that these men, they got her, for a few minutes at a time, and then he got something in return. She didn't know what it was. She didn't know what he was getting. But whatever it was, it would help them leave. So she lay there.

Soon enough it was two men a day. Sometimes these men did not want him there with her. Most of them just ignored him, she thought, but one of them, once, said that he would only pay them if he would leave. He did not leave the room, she knew that, she could feel him still be there. But her head was flat on the table, her hands clenching into fists at her side, as she stayed, she stayed, she stayed, and then she came, and so did the man, and he groaned, and she hated him.

It only ever got up to three men a day. He did not take her anywhere except to this fourth place with the table anymore. It was not even a bed; just a wooden table, and she did not know if there was anything else in the room. He would pick her up and put her down on it, and then he would tie her feet so that her legs were spread, and she would wait. Sometimes he would sit with her, and sometimes he would go and stand by the door. But he would watch. Every time he would watch. And then one day he did not pick her up; instead he brought her to the table and put his hand on her back, bending her over so her chest was against the table, and she turned her head to the side. He still tied her legs down. And whoever came up behind her would put his hands on her hips, and pull her towards him a little bit, and she would feel him between her legs, as he rubbed against her, rubbed against the wet parts, never the dry parts. Maybe he made that a rule. It was not a rule for her, it was a rule for her men. He had never used her dry parts before, so she was glad. She could handle the people coming in for her. He would give her hours in between them, so she could take a break. He would not untie her, so she would be standing leaning over the table or laying on her back with her knees bent, but she would rest. He would sit on the table, taking her head into his lap whichever way she was facing, and he would sing to her, his songs about mountains and valleys, and stroke her hair back; he would lean his forehead against hers if she was on her back and he would press his lips to her head if she was on her stomach, and he would say softly, "Good puppy," and then he would go and bring the next man in.

He began to let other people in, to watch. He would talk to them, sometimes too soft for her to hear the words, just the rumble of his voice on the far side of the room, but it was enough, it was enough for her to concentrate on. Some of the men were gentle like he was. Some of them were rough like the first man. None of them were as good as him, because she knew that none of them loved her like he did. And she knew that he loved her, because he would take her home every night and let her sleep on the bed with him. During the day, if there were only one or two men who came over to touch her, he would take her himself in between. She knew it was him, because no one else went to their knees between her legs and kissed her there. No one else licked the wet in between her legs, no one else ran their hands up her thighs, over her hips, to feel the fire burning in her belly. No one else put a fire in her belly. It was just him. No one else put one hand on her wrist and one hand on her stomach the way that he did, the way that he held her. No one else made her sit up when she was on her back. Every other man took her lying there. But if it was him, he would pull her up so her face was in his shoulder as he gently pushed into her. He could not help it. He was jealous. She knew that. He would not make her for sale if he did not absolutely have to. He had avoided it as long as he could. But rivers always change.

And this went on. She did not know how much he got from making her for sale. She did not know how much he needed. But she thought perhaps that the people who came in to watch also gave him things. Perhaps not as much as the ones who got to touch her. But those who came in to watch also had to give him something, give them something. She knew it was for the both of them. So they could both leave. So she would not have to do this anymore. This was the only time, she knew. He never told her so. But she knew. Neither of them particularly wanted this to be the way they spent their days, but it was what they had to do, so they would never have to do it again.

And then came the day that he was afraid would come, and it was the day that she was afraid of, too, even though she did not think it would ever come. He would not let it come, she thought. She had hardly ever had to say the word violet to him. It was the word he told her to use if he ever went too fast or too far, and he would stop, no questions asked, no anger, no guilt. She had only said it once or twice, when they were trying out new games, and he was never angry or disappointed. He just stopped immediately and took her in his arms and let her sleep in bed with him that night.

She knew that this entire time she could say violet. When she was on that table, on her stomach or on her back, if she ever said violet he would come and he would take her away. It did not matter that she was for sale and that they were doing it so they could leave. It did not matter that it was not him but other men. She knew. He never told her she could say it, but she knew she always could. He would not let anything happen to her. That is why she gave herself to him; for his rules, for his arms, for his care. She was helping him now. And one day she lay on her stomach, and he had kissed her between her legs and held her hips in his hands as he was inside of her, and then he came to sit with her, cross-legged on the table in front of her so she could press her cheek against the table and stretch her hand up and feel him, and there was a knock on the door, and he said, "Yeah."

And someone came in. It was someone he knew, she knew immediately because his entire body stiffened, and then slowly he swung his legs around and got off the table. "Harry."

"Xander," said the voice from that night at the first place. "Didn't you say you wouldn't let me borrow her because she wasn't for sale?"

Some other people came into the room too, she could hear their footsteps. And finally he answered, an edge to his voice, "Only one of you. The others watch."

"Rules, rules, rules," said the man named Harry, or maybe not. Who knew his real name? He called him Xander, when his name was River, or maybe it wasn't, she didn't know, no one knew. The man named Harry came up behind her and ran his hand over her back; she shivered; he laughed. "The rest of you can watch."

He was a jealous man. He did not want to make her for sale because he could hardly stand to see other people touch her. But he had to. Harry pressed his body against hers from behind, she was on her stomach, and he reached up and around and put his hand on her head. She moved it away; no one but him could touch her hair, her face, her blindfold. Harry conceded, undoing his zipper, and she felt him fall against her. He felt big, bigger than anyone before him, and she had been doing this for a while. Harry leaned over her, rubbing himself against her, and she could hear the other men say something to him. She could hear voices, soft rumbling in the distance, and then Harry leaned around her and put his hand over her mouth, and pushed inside of her, the wrong way.

She gasped, she tried to shriek, she tried to move away, but she was tied to the table and he was covering her mouth, her nose, she could barely breathe. She jerked under him, but he leaned over her so she could not move, and she twisted her neck, trying to get away. This was the dry part that he had always avoided, that all the men had avoided, it must have been a rule that he made for her men, that they could go inside her, but only at the wet parts. But Harry did not listen. He forced himself in, no one had ever been in that way before, and she could feel tears in her eyes, welling up under the blindfold, and she gasped again, making a noise against his hand. He ignored her. It was too hard, too fast, too far, but he just kept going. She struggled, she could hear voices murmuring in the background, maybe he was not looking, he did not see. He was not watching what was happening, that's why he was not doing anything, and she twisted her neck, finally freeing a bit of her mouth, and gasped out, "Violet."

"Bitch," whispered Harry. All the other voices in the room went silent, and he pushed inside of her deeper, and then he pulled away, no, he was pulled away. And she heard the sound of skin on skin, flesh on flesh, she heard a grunt, and Harry fell to the floor, and there were bangs and noises, loud in her ears, too loud, too much to hear, for the first time ever there was too much to hear, and she cried. And then other hands, not his hands, she knew his fingers and these were not his fingers, were untying her, undoing the straps around her legs, and she rolled off of the table and onto the ground. Shr heard grunts and groans of pain, and Harry yelled, and then he was quiet. And then he was there, picking her up from the ground, cradling her in his arms, and he whisked her away.

He carried her all the way home. She pressed her face into his shoulder and cried, feeling the blindfold become soaked with tears, she was sore and throbbing and there was blood on his hands, she could feel it smearing against her skin as he carried her. He kicked open the door and he dumped her on the bed, and she curled up in a ball, and he stuck his fingers under the blindfold and wiped her eyes, getting blood on her cheeks, and he crawled into bed with her and pulled her close to his chest and put his hand on her forehead. He tilted her head back so the back of her head was against his forehead, and he wiped away some more tears and some blood off of her face, Harry's blood from his hands, and he whispered, "I'm sorry."

She sniffled, and he moved his hand off her head, and she rolled over. Her body ached, especially there at the dry part, but she just moved herself around so she was facing him, and she pressed her face against his chest. He usually did not let her fall asleep like that, facing him, but that night he did. He let her sleep in the bed with him and he let her press her face into his chest, against his shoulder, breathing in and smelling him over and over and over, she knew what he smelled like, she lived in that smell.

She slept for a day. That is what he told her when she woke up. She did not know she had slept for a day, but he told her that she had. And he gave her food, after she woke up, and her body was not so sore anymore. He let her smell, and eat, and he gave her something to drink, and then he picked her up off the bed gently and he put her in the bathtub. And he spent longer than he usually did, when he washed her, he spent much longer than he usually did as he ran his hands slowly over her body, gentle but firm, he washed every inch of her arms and her legs and he ran his hands over her torso, over her breasts, he felt them soapy in the water, and then he told her to take a deep breath, and he held her blindfold in place as she dunked her head, and he ran his fingers through her hair with shampoo. She leaned her head back, feeling the lower part of her body ache still, but the water felt nice. It did not stay hot forever like the water at the place that they went to. But still she sat in it for a long time, longer than usual, as he ran his fingers through her hair gently, scratching her head, rubbing behind her ears, rolling locks of hair between his fingers. And then he told her to take a deep breath again, and pushed her underwater again. He rubbed her head while she was under to get the soap out, and then she came up with a gasp, shivering in the water that had gone cold.

And he told her to stand, and she did, and he wrapped a towel around her, and then he picked her up and took her out of the tub, and he said, "We have enough."

"Enough what?" Her voice felt scratchy, and he moved away from her to get her some more water. As she drank it he said, "Enough to go."

She nearly choked, and he took the glass away from her gently, and then began to rub her body down. "How?"

He did not answer. He took the towel and rubbed her head, so hard that the blindfold nearly came off, but her hair was drier when he reached up to fix it. And then he ran the towel down each of her arms, each of her legs, and then he gently wiped off the parts in between them, he knew it still hurt, and then he straightened up, put the towel over her shoulders again, and said, "I got some things from Harry."

"When?"

"While you slept."

"You left?" she asked, tilting her head towards his voice, and he moved away. She reached her hand out, feeling for the bed, and took a few steps until her foot bumped into it. She sank down onto it, and she heard him walking somewhere, and then coming back closer to her. "Only for a little. Only to get what he owed us."

"What did he owe us?"

"After what he did to you," he said softly, sitting down next to her on the bed and wrapping his arm around her. He pressed his lips to her head, and sighed, the sad sigh, and said, "After what he did to you he owed us a way out."

"Did we get it?"

"Yes."

"So when do we go?"

"As soon as we can."

"Did you kill him?" she asked quietly, and he stiffened, she could feel it, and she blinked against the blindfold. He sighed, the sad sigh, and then pulled away from her, turning her by her shoulders so her back was to him and he could fiddle with the knot on the blindfold. "We won't talk about him anymore."

She slept with him in the bed that night. The whole next day they spent in bed. He rolled on top of her and touched her, slipping a finger inside of her and stroking the wall of her inside in the spot that he knew would make her shake, and he kissed her, he rubbed his nose against hers, he did not tell her to stay. He let her come to him, and she did, and afterwards she took him in her mouth, and he stroked her hair back, scratching her head, she knew he was happy, because she was okay, he had done something that put her in danger but he had taken her away as soon as he could and she was okay. She knew he was sorry. He had never apologized to her before. He had never needed to. But she did not need to think about what had happened, because everything was fine now. He finally rolled out of bed late into the day and made them something to eat, and then they fell asleep again, but not before she ran her fingers over his face again. She could feel him smile under her fingers, she wondered if he was worried that she might have been mad at him, because she thought about it for a while, wondering if she was mad at him, but she was not. He let her sleep in bed with him that night too. And the next day, he woke her up when he sat up, and then crawled over her to get out of bed, and when she sat up too he said, "We're going today."

She tilted her head towards his voice, and yawned. When she was done yawning she said softly, "Where are we going?"

"You said you would follow me."

"I will."

He didn't answer. He was moving around, and things were rustling and making noise, she did not know what he was doing. She just sat in bed and listened, that was her job. Listen and wait. Finally he came to her, and he took her hand in his. She felt the soft leather strap wrap around her wrist, and she felt it pull a little as he stood, and said, "Let's go."

So they went.

He left the door hanging open behind him. If someone came to find them, they would know they were gone. She was not for sale anymore. She was for him, just for him, and he was for her, he was going to lead her to a better place. She could not see where they were going, she just followed him. He would not lead her into danger. She knew that. She was wearing old sandals, and she could feel the rocks in the road under her feet. Fire. Tangerine. Bumblebee. Grass. Sky. Flowers. But she did not take off the blindfold. First rule, she listened to what he said. She followed him where he went. Second rule, she was not for sale. She was for him, just for him. Third rule, the blindfold never came off.