Page 88 of Caged
The boy I once loved.
The boy turned con man.
The boy who realized he would never be able to control his own demons, so he became one instead.
Standing to the right of the dais, I lower to my knees for the last time, because I’m getting the fuck out of this prison tonight. The basement, decorated in shades of sin, looks different without the veil of psychedelics. It looks basic, childish, like an oversized room was poorly decorated in the same shade of red cloth by boys who know no better. I search for the details of finesse I thought I had previously seen. My memories are of a plush, underground sex club, lavish and refined, and not of fraying curtains, carelessly constructed makeshift beds, stained chairs, and trays piled high with condoms.
In walks the procession of women, and my heart sinks. How naïve we had been to think we were part of an elite club, led to believe we were taking part in something akin to a mystical midsummer solstice ceremony.
This isn’t a ceremonial room. It’s a feeding pen where the women are led to slaughter like sheep in a pasture.
In the back of the room, hiding like cowards, I see the ‘elders’, the handful of men who I doubt hold any real power in the world, so they have to take it from young women. How disgusting it is to let these women believe these men wear different masks because they are seniors who take part in some harmless chanting at the end of the night.
A gold horn peeks in and out of view.X. The alpha controlling the pack, surrounded by his hyenas, waiting to feast on easy prey in their circus tent. I wonder their ages. Thirty? Forty? Fifty? All this because some sick old men want to cheat on their wives and fuck nineteen-year-old pussy?
My fingers instinctively curl into fists.
What have these old men promised in exchange? A guaranteed job upon graduation?
“But I get to spill her blood.”
Kieren’s words spear me like a pincushion.They are killing us.Why?
Why?!I scream to myself. Is the value of a life worth so little? But then I glance around the room, remembering those in my presence. Wealth, power, greed. A pyramid for the aristocratic rich, built atop the blood and bones of those like me, born without a cent to their name.
“Kneel,” Kieren commands, as he takes his position. Words flow from his mouth like poisoned honey. Words that we swallow because we are told they are medicine, and we recite them because we do not realize the severity of the words we willingly repeat.
“The spilling of Sigma’s secrets is punishable by death.”
“A death which I will gladly accept should I prove disloyal.”
“Should I be called upon in the name of Moloch, I offer my soul as sacrifice.”
“Let the Ceremony begin,” Kieren booms. Lights dim to the point of near darkness. Music thumps. Men and women move in a dreamlike state. Some couple right away. Some cluster together in groups. It’s as I remember, but the glossy sheen of lust and abandoned inhibitions is missing.
I know I’ll soon be called upon. I’ve mentally prepared for this moment. Even though I’ve shared a bed with Kieren for the last week, we haven’t been intimate. If he’s sober, he’s cold and uninterested. If he’s not, he’s too high to care. I’ve come to know the type of mood he’s in by the way his footsteps sound as he approaches the bedroom door. I can tell how high he is by the number of times his key scrapes the lock before making contact with the keyhole. I know the mask I need to wear, the role I need to play, to placate his temper.
As heartbreaking as it is to see him out of his mind, he usually passes out within five minutes. Once I hear the telltale sound of his soft snores, I’ll resume whatever work I was doing before he returned. When he’s awake, I’m too on edge to focus. I’ll pretend to read my textbook, and eventually, he becomes indifferent.
I can sense the moment he decides to disengage. He’ll go into the bathroom or lie down on his bed and scroll through his phone. Then, the charged energy in the room temporarily subdues. This has proven to be a good time to ask him to order food. It always takes me several minutes to work up the confidence to speak, to let him hear my voice. The first few seconds are the scariest, when my brain analyzes his shift in energy, and I’ll know if the bear is annoyed but agreeable or irritated and now irate.
Minutes pass, and he hasn’t called me to his lap. But I can sense the tension. I can sense he wants to, but knows I may refuse, and doesn’t want others to see him rejected in public. I know if I initiate, it will please him, and I don’t want to give him a reason to be angrier than usual tonight. I need him to let me go upstairs with Jace. I need him not to think twice about locking me in his room without chaining me to the bed. I need him to think I took the pills when, in fact, I didn’t.
Swallowing my dignity, I reach out and skim the calf of his black pants. He looks down at me, and I give him my best attempt at innocence.
He leans forward and more tenderly than I would have expected, helps me to my feet. I climb onto his lap, straddling his groin. He stiffens underneath me, and I feel his length press against my panties.
I gaze into his hollow eyes as I run my palms up his bare chest, wishing that a shred of his humanity would shine through,because I don’t know if I can go forward with this, and I don’t know if he can, either.
Does he know it’s over?
Does he sense deep down that this is the last time?
I avert my eyes in apology, and to my shock, he lifts his mask. Our stares lock, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him,really seen him, in weeks. His gaze flicks between my eyes and lips. I feel my soul whimper with want, and I close my eyes, pulling his mouth to mine, and taste him.
I moan, craving him, needing him, thirsting for his touch. His forgiveness. His approval. His love and acceptance. I know with every swipe of my tongue against his that I may walk away from this man, but I will spend an eternity wishing I had his heart.
His fingers push aside my thong. Weeks without intimacy has me pulling back to study his face. He slides two fingers down my labia as he looks at me in question, silently asking if this is okay. I don’t confirm, but I don’t stop him, and despite the voice screaming in my head, I slowly rock into his touch. His eyelids flutter closed as he pushes his fingers inside my hot center, as if this act alone is enough to send him over the edge, and I want so badly to believe the expression painted across his face is one of regret. The threat of tears stings my eyes. I can’t look at him. I can’t watch him fall apart.
