Chapter Three: Conditioned to Surrender
Gabe's control infiltrated my life gradually. I was aware of his intentions, but I provided enough genuine and manufactured pushback to appear naïve and intentionally oblivious to his manipulations. Gabe was conditioning me to his preferences and rewarding me when I submitted to him within parameters he deemed acceptable. In my rationalizations, I knew that each concession I surrendered would be a necessary sacrifice towards eventual escape. Accepting the reality that I was a coerced yet willing conspirator in my own subjugation was a bane on my psyche and one that was increasingly difficult to reconcile.
I understood that to mentally survive my ordeal, I needed to rationalize the purpose of my captivity. If I could derive some pleasure from my submission, I would accept that. Gabe was after all, exceedingly attractive. I could compartmentalize.
"Are you ever going to release me?" I'd ask Gabe daily in those initial weeks.
"Hmmm?" Gabe always replied.
"I could cut off your hand so I can access the biometrics securing the lock," I countered.
"You could. But that would involve finding drugs, overpowering me, finding a cutting implement, procuring the key from the safe, and then locating money, your ID, and your bearings to escape. As you've discovered, there aren't many sharp things left in your apartment. The mirror is polycarbonate. While I told you we originated from the same city, I didn't tell you where we currently are," Gabe responded. "Do you think you could navigate all that?"
I nodded emphatically, but eventually stopped asking due to the seeming insurmountable nature of it all. My freedom wouldn't be achieved through force, but by guile. Manipulation was a necessary response to my conditions.
During dinner, Gabe would compliment me on an outfit's colour, and I would wear the same hue the following day. That was met with an exclamation of "good girl," praise, and gifts. On the odd occasion when I would disregard his comments, he would withhold any form of adulation rather than reprimand me. It became an inside joke. I would select his favourite colour multiple days in a row and silently chuckle when I wore something he loathed. I flirtatiously twirled in innocence on those days asking if he liked what I wore. He tried to suppress his disdain, especially when I selected a particularly ugly chartreuse tunic that was more comfortable than fashionable.
"It's nice." Gabe tried to maintain a straight face.
"I chose it especially for you Gabe. I thought you'd like it!" I plastered a smile on my face and ran my hands down the smooth material skimming the silhouette of my body to press the fabric against me, before it billowed back to its shapeless form. "I should wear this more often. I think it highlights my eyes. What do you think? Do I look sexy in it?"
"Yes, well whatever you think is best Amelia," he responded.
Gabe reserved "little one" when he was pleased with something I did. I was otherwise Amelia.
It took restraint for me to withhold displaying emotion lest the cameras capture it. I was inwardly amused knowing that my micro-rebellions irked him, more than my outright refusals. Gabe couldn't comment since he didn't want to reveal that he was conditioning me. I continued to perpetrate my modest acts of defiance; they gave credence to my naivety. Defying him brought me a measure of joy. Defiance was an act of agency in a seemingly hopeless situation.
"Hi Gabe." I lifted myself on my tip toes and encircled my arms around him before I tilted my head upwards seeking the softness of his lips. Gabe captured me against the hardness of his chest, pulling me close against the length of his body. Mittens playfully nipped at Gabe's ankles.
"Good evening little one." He gave my torso one final squeeze before setting me gently on my feet and reaching down to pet Mittens. "Don't you look fetching tonight."
I stood there coquettishly, my body on display in a black strapless mini dress. "It's good to see you too Gabe. Thanks." While I despised Gabe for abducting me, I was not immune to experiencing an inexplicable bashful shyness when he complimented me. Such were the conflicting emotions I grappled with daily in my confined isolation.
Gabe's preference to be welcomed with affection was one I willingly obliged. His manipulations started slowly. He initially commented that it would be nice if I greeted him at the door, so he started knocking instead of letting himself in. When I opened the door with a greeting, he rewarded me. Then, he suggested that he would not be averse to receiving a hug. I resisted until one evening my arms opened to him in an embrace. The kiss was suggested shortly thereafter.
"Little one?" Gabe approached me cautiously. "Would you mind if we greeted each other with a kiss? It would please me immensely." His finger drew a lingering trail up my inner arm until it rested in the hollow of my clavicle, before he teasingly traced upwards contouring my jawline.
"It would please you?" I looked up at him from lowered eyes.
Gabe nodded. "Don't you want to please me?"
I shyly nodded. Gabe smiled and he leaned down to kiss me. I had perfected my sheepishly flirtatious countenance. Gabe enjoyed when I adopted the personae. He equated it to my increasing feelings of submissiveness. I didn't dispel him of his erroneous assumption. I simply assumed the look for its perceived instrumentality.
When spite drove my actions, I would postpone brushing my teeth until after Gabe's arrival, so that the stench of my morning breath imbued my greeting kiss with an added aroma. He never said anything, though I did catch a smirk once.
When I greeted him at the door as he desired, he would ruffle my hair affectionately and bestow much-starved affection on me. I hated admitting it, but I enjoyed Gabe's touches and embraces. Social isolation has a way of distorting needs. I confessed to him one evening that I craved touch. Though loving as she was, Mittens was a poor substitute for human company. After my admission, Gabe intentionally initiated physical contact with me. His fingers lingered on my shoulders and arms, his hands cupped mine, and his touches on my body were gentle and strangely reassuring in my seclusion. They reminded me that I mattered and that I was human.
Amorous petting on the couch was a frequent past time. I wasn't dating Gabe, but I had sexual needs. His sociopathy aside, he was quite considerate in meeting my desires and never expressed any hesitation with fingering me to an orgasm. The first time I "voluntarily" parted my legs and welcomed the slow effortless slide of Gabe's fingers into my pussy was challenging. I recognized that my tacit acceptance of Gabe's conditions was an acknowledgement of my deepening submission to him. I had accounted for this eventuality as a component of what I termed, 'Operation Freedom'. I hadn't anticipated the emotional turmoil in reconciling my desires on a mental and emotional level, and in those initial instances, I instinctively resisted.
Gabe placed his hand on my upper thigh. We had finished dinner and were watching a movie on the sofa, casually bantering as we made snarky comments during the film's dialogue. His hand teasingly rubbed over the cotton material of my skirt as it gathered at the juncture of my groin and upper thigh. The firm press of his palm as it slid closer to my crotch before it rubbed over the fabric teased at my core. He turned to look at my widened eyes as his hand slid under my skirt and snaked under my panties towards my slit. I clamped my legs shut, trapping his hand, preventing further movement. Gabe looked surprised but reached into the crevice of the sofa between the cushion and armrest and retrieved a strap, buckling my wrist before I could object. He reached across the length of sofa and pulled another strap, trapping my other wrist, cinching it tight. He stood and dug out two straps from under the cushions, tethering my ankles, tightening the straps so that my legs were spread open. I was bound. I pulled. There was no lateral movement afforded. I couldn't close my legs. My skirt rode up. I couldn't move my arms but for a few millimetres upwards. Gabe simply sat back down, his hand on my thigh, as if having a trussed, spread-opened woman beside him was an everyday expectation.
"No," I whispered. "You said you weren't going to force me."
"No?" Gabe countered. "Tell me no again Amelia and I'll stop everything."
I only gasped as Gabe continued to wend his fingers towards the awaiting moisture, fully penetrating my silken and slicked folds. "For a no," he teased, "your body is screaming yes Amelia. I don't believe I'm forcing you to do anything. I'm giving you exactly what your cunt wants. You love that you're tied up and helpless next to me, don't you? It gets you wetter knowing that I can do whatever I want with you, and you won't say no."
I shook my head yet uttered no objection. My denial unconvincing. I longed to feel the thickness of a man's fingers stroking me once again. I detested that it was Gabe. Gabe's penetration of me was deliberate and frustratingly languid. His fingers expertly glided against flesh as he caressed my vaginal walls. The flatness of his thumb pad pressed hard against my clitoris, in rough, purposefully quickened circular motions.
Gabe studied me intently, gauging my bodily reactions and struggling breaths, memorizing them. With every stroke of his finger, he observed how my body would arch upwards seeking his touch and bring itself closer to the next plateau of pleasure, straining against the bonds that held me. His breath was hot and thick in my ear. "Little one? Do you remember what I told you about your orgasms?"
I shook my head. I attempted to lift my wrist upwards. Gabe's heavy hand pinned it down to the sofa, trapping it. The small act caused a thrill of anticipation as I watched Gabe watch me.
"The orgasm I gave you that day would be the last one you had without asking my permission while in my presence. Do you remember that?" His fingers continued their ever-sensual fondling. "Ask me permission to climax little one. If you want an orgasm, you must ask me."
"Ask you?" I panted. Gabe's fingers sped up and I slouched down on the sofa at his gesturing.
"Ask me little one. It's so easy." Gabe's fingers momentarily stopped as he waited and I felt the edge that was building, slowly dissipate. I moaned in disappointment. He started stroking me slowly again. But this time, two fingers slipped easily into my hot tunnel and within moments, I felt the tight pull of desire beckoning me closer towards the precipice again.
"Ask." It was a single word uttered from Gabe's mouth as his hand increased the speed at which his fingers entered and exited. The dulcet smoothness of the word's tone as it left Gabe's tongue was hypnotic. He said nothing else as his hands continued their increasingly frenzied touch. A third finger joined the two. My hips gyrated in accompaniment with Gabe's movements. "Ask," he murmured softly in my ear, his tongue teasing a wet trail down the lobe. The pace of his fingers doubled and the familiar tightening in my belly signalled that I was close.
I shook my head frantically. I wasn't prepared to concede yet another fragment of myself. I wanted to dictate my acquiescence, not be coerced into it as I was tied to a sofa and spread out.
