English from infancy,
but I didn’t gain mastery of the language until I studied English
and English literature in college. But if I explain that, there’ll
be other questions. And if he finds out I had a good job teaching
English in Sinaloa, he’ll want to know why I left to become some
stranger’s slave in the US. And that, of course, would lead to all
the rest coming out.
I know it will someday. It has to. Truth is
like gravity—it always has its way.
But, please God, not yet. Not today. Let me
be happy just a little while longer.
I feel him nod as his hand begins sifting
through my hair. He seems endlessly fascinated with it, as if it’s
a form of matter he’s never encountered before.
“Do you want to contact them? Your
family?”
I lift my head from his shoulder and look
down at him. “Really? You would let me contact them?”
A shadow crosses his green eyes and I realize
my incredulity has hurt him. “Of course. The only reason I didn’t
offer before is because I worried they might want to come and
‘rescue’ you from captivity. But now that you’re wearing this”—he
runs his finger over the collar—“I’m not worried about that. I’ll
always be able to find you.”
My brow furrows in puzzlement. “I don’t
understand. How does it mean you can always find me?”
“There’s a GPS chip embedded inside the metal
and another chip that monitors your vital signs. As long as you
have this on, I’ll know exactly where you are, that you're alive
and well”
In that instant, the collar takes on a whole
new—and sinister—meaning. It’s not a symbol of his devotion to me,
of my importance to him. He’s had me micro-chipped like an animal.
It’s little better than chain. The only difference, apparently, is
that it’s a chain long enough to let me go as far as China.
The haze of contentment I’d been floating on
vanishes completely. “After today, after I came back, you still
don’t trust me not to leave.” The words come out flat and
hopeless.
“What?” He sounds genuinely shocked by my
accusation. “Of course I trust you . It’s other people
I don’t trust. Beautiful women are always in danger out in the
world. I want to be sure I can always come to your rescue if
anything happens. Even if the anything that happens is that your
family decides you’re not safe with me.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure I completely believe him,
but it’s a lucid—if not entirely rational—explanation.
“So, do you want to contact your family?”
For a second, I hesitate. I want them to know
I’m alive and safe. They must be worried sick, imagining the worst.
But what else can I tell them? Certainly not that I’m living with a
man I met just six weeks ago, having sex with him—and not just sex,
but raunchy, dirty, no-holes barred sex—and letting him treat me
like a slave. And more, that I like it.
But in the end, it’s not even a point for
debate. I’ll find a way to sugarcoat the reality. They deserve to
know they saved my life. Even if things didn’t turn out quite the
way they planned.
As I enter my master’s private refuge—his
office—for the first time, I’m struck first by the sheer number of
screens and blinking lights and whirring machines. It reminds me a
little of Mission Control in the movie Apollo 13 , except
that these devices are much newer and more sophisticated.
“You can use that computer over there,” he
says, pointing toward a sleek, modern monitor and accompanying
keyboard that sits on a desk on the left hand side of the room.
“You can email or use the IM program to send a text message to a
cell phone. I’ll just log in and work a little on a program I’m
doing for a client while you get in touch with them.”
Nodding, I sit down in the rolling leather
office chair in front of the computer and try to decide how to
begin. I ultimately open the IM program and type in my older
brother’s cell phone number.
My fingers tremble slightly as I type.
Luis,
but I didn’t gain mastery of the language until I studied English
and English literature in college. But if I explain that, there’ll
be other questions. And if he finds out I had a good job teaching
English in Sinaloa, he’ll want to know why I left to become some
stranger’s slave in the US. And that, of course, would lead to all
the rest coming out.
I know it will someday. It has to. Truth is
like gravity—it always has its way.
But, please God, not yet. Not today. Let me
be happy just a little while longer.
I feel him nod as his hand begins sifting
through my hair. He seems endlessly fascinated with it, as if it’s
a form of matter he’s never encountered before.
“Do you want to contact them? Your
family?”
I lift my head from his shoulder and look
down at him. “Really? You would let me contact them?”
A shadow crosses his green eyes and I realize
my incredulity has hurt him. “Of course. The only reason I didn’t
offer before is because I worried they might want to come and
‘rescue’ you from captivity. But now that you’re wearing this”—he
runs his finger over the collar—“I’m not worried about that. I’ll
always be able to find you.”
My brow furrows in puzzlement. “I don’t
understand. How does it mean you can always find me?”
“There’s a GPS chip embedded inside the metal
and another chip that monitors your vital signs. As long as you
have this on, I’ll know exactly where you are, that you're alive
and well”
In that instant, the collar takes on a whole
new—and sinister—meaning. It’s not a symbol of his devotion to me,
of my importance to him. He’s had me micro-chipped like an animal.
It’s little better than chain. The only difference, apparently, is
that it’s a chain long enough to let me go as far as China.
The haze of contentment I’d been floating on
vanishes completely. “After today, after I came back, you still
don’t trust me not to leave.” The words come out flat and
hopeless.
“What?” He sounds genuinely shocked by my
accusation. “Of course I trust you . It’s other people
I don’t trust. Beautiful women are always in danger out in the
world. I want to be sure I can always come to your rescue if
anything happens. Even if the anything that happens is that your
family decides you’re not safe with me.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure I completely believe him,
but it’s a lucid—if not entirely rational—explanation.
“So, do you want to contact your family?”
For a second, I hesitate. I want them to know
I’m alive and safe. They must be worried sick, imagining the worst.
But what else can I tell them? Certainly not that I’m living with a
man I met just six weeks ago, having sex with him—and not just sex,
but raunchy, dirty, no-holes barred sex—and letting him treat me
like a slave. And more, that I like it.
But in the end, it’s not even a point for
debate. I’ll find a way to sugarcoat the reality. They deserve to
know they saved my life. Even if things didn’t turn out quite the
way they planned.
As I enter my master’s private refuge—his
office—for the first time, I’m struck first by the sheer number of
screens and blinking lights and whirring machines. It reminds me a
little of Mission Control in the movie Apollo 13 , except
that these devices are much newer and more sophisticated.
“You can use that computer over there,” he
says, pointing toward a sleek, modern monitor and accompanying
keyboard that sits on a desk on the left hand side of the room.
“You can email or use the IM program to send a text message to a
cell phone. I’ll just log in and work a little on a program I’m
doing for a client while you get in touch with them.”
Nodding, I sit down in the rolling leather
office chair in front of the computer and try to decide how to
begin. I ultimately open the IM program and type in my older
brother’s cell phone number.
My fingers tremble slightly as I type.
Luis,
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