Bound to Accept by Nenia Campbell

P.M.”
    “ Open the door and let me
in.”
    Should I?
    As I peer through the
peep-hole, I wonder if this is one of those situations where I
ought to call the police. Boyfriend goes on murderous rampage.
Kills idiotic twenty-five-year-old. But he doesn't look angry. He looks
worried.
    That sounds exactly like what an idiotic
twenty-five-year-old's last thoughts would be.
    Hoping I'm not making a big mistake, I open
the door and he bursts in without waiting for permission—although I
guess opening it in the first place signified implied consent.
    “ Don't ever do that to me again,” he says.
“When I ask you questions like that, I expect an answer. You are
not allowed to shut me out and ignore me. If you do that, we cannot
have a relationship together. Do you understand?”
    I look down at the phone and realize I have
about five text messages and three missed calls. All from him. I
look back up at him, and start to understand.
    “ I was asleep.”
    “ And I was worried ,” he growls at
me. “You're telling me how nervous you are, how frightened , and that you're afraid
I'm going to hurt you. Then you disappear and I can't get a hold of
you—what the hell am I supposed to think?”
    My back hits the wall. “I…I'm sorry.”
    “ Are you?” Tristan walks
forward, boxing me in, but he doesn't touch me. He can be plenty
dominating with his presence alone. “I don't think you
are.”
    I go back to feeling scared again. He towers
over me, and he's very strong. When he pinned down my wrists, I
couldn't move them at all. It occurs to me that, if he really
wanted to hurt me, he could. Easily.
    I don't want to think about him like this, I
really don't, but it's hard not to, when I'm wearing my thin ribbed
tank top and boxers, and he's standing there looking so scary.
    Maybe I shouldn't have let him in.
    “ I am sorry. Really.” I wet my lips. “I
could…show you,” I venture hesitantly, reaching for his
pants.
    Tristan grabs my wrist and holds it against
the wall, and I start to veer towards terrified. “This isn't a
scene,” he says. “This is me, trying to figure out what you
want.”
    Not a scene. Not assault. He's just trying
to keep me from touching his cock. “You're scaring me,” I
whisper.
    “ I'm sorry.” His eyes find
me in the dark, and he relaxes his grip on my wrist, although he
does not let go. “I did not mean to do that. But I need to know
what you want.”
    “ I want—” what do I want?
“I want a relationship with you.” I gulp. “I want to be exclusive.
I don't…I don't want to be just another notch in your
bedpost.”
    “ Jesus fucking Christ,” he
says, when I start crying.
    Tristan releases my arm, and pulls me
against him. He embraces me tightly, then steers me to the table,
where I sit blotting my eyes with a paper towel while he brews some
tea. He puts the steaming Grumpy Cat mug in front of me and stands
there with his arms folded.
    “ Take a sip.”
    “ It's too hot.”
    “ Then blow on
it.”
    I blow on the tea and take a tiny sip.
    “ First of all, the women I
choose to sleep with are not notches in my bedpost. Just because I choose not
to fuck and tell doesn't mean I don't respect them. I do. Just like
I respect you. And you will respect that.”
    “ I'm sorry.”
    “ Second of all, if you get
this upset, I want you to let me know immediately instead of
freaking out about it and doing all this passive-aggressive
avoidance bullshit.”
    I take another sip of tea. He chose the
chamomile and it's starting to make me feel pleasantly warm and
sleepy.
    “ No passive-aggressive
avoidance bullshit,” I mumble.
    Tristan sighs and kneels down next to me.
“For the last time,” he says, very firmly, “is this really what you
want?”
    “ Yes.”
    “ Stop saying 'yes.' I want
to hear you say it.”
    “ I want to be your
submissive. I want to submit to you in all ways, and not just
physically or sexually. I want you to—to fuck me.” I stare at my
tea. “It's just so