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Message-ID: <43189asstr$1057104602@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "H. Jekyll" <h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} "Control, Part Four: The Box" (no story codes)
Date: Tue,  1 Jul 2003 20:10:02 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

"Control"
By H. Jekyll

Part Four: "The Box"

* * * * *

I do not use story codes anymore. This story contains 
explicit sex and great sexual cruelty. It is the tale of a 
woman who left her lover for a sexually dominant man, and 
who has descended into a world of sadism-for-profit on the 
internet. It is also a story of love and commitment.

I appreciate comments and inquiries, even criticisms, and I 
absolutely promise to respond to them. Please send them to: 
h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com

Copyright 2002 by H. Jekyll. Permission is freely granted 
to post on any site that does not charge for entrance, as 
long as full attribution is given to the author. The story 
should not be read by anyone under the legal age to read 
sexually explicit stories, or by anyone in a location where 
it is illegal to read such stories. 

"Control" previously appeared at "Ruthie's Club," which I 
recommend to readers, where it was edited by Ruthie. An 
illustrated and formatted earlier version can be found 
there. See: http://www.ruthiesclub.com/.

H. Jekyll's stories are archived at "Ruthie's Club" and
in the Alt Sex Stories Text Repository, 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/h_jekyll/

* * * * *

"The Box"

You can't know what nothingness is. You can't comprehend it 
because your world is thick with sensation. But Anne can 
understand it. Anne doesn't know where she is. She doesn't 
know how she came here. She doesn't know what "here" is. 
There's no texture, no figure, no light, no sound, nothing 
to break the nothingness. Black. Silent. She was somewhere 
and now she's not anywhere at all. She's twisted like a 
pretzel. She can't understand. She's trying to think but 
there's no sensation to wrap a thought around. Yes, now 
there's something. There's an ache in her shoulders, a dull 
little thing that soon blossoms to fill the void. Nature 
abhors a vacuum, don't you know, so the ache throbs 
throughout hers, expanding, filling, taking over all the 
space in her universe. Finally the pain gives her an anchor 
and she knows. Somehow she's at the bottom of a coal mine, 
trapped under a mile of rubble. How did it happen? She 
can't remember. She's dying alone. She tries to call for 
help but there's no air.

Wake up, Geoff!

If you sleep you'll crash, and who will rescue Anne? Stay 
awake. Find some radio station. Watch the half-moon 
skimming along the horizon, the same moon you saw last 
night. It's still there. It'll keep you going. It's your 
destination anyway. The silver apples of the moon. Follow 
them to your glimmering girl, with apple blossom in her 
hair. 

Why that poem? You don't even like Yeats. Yeah, but it's 
how she got me. She came up to me at a party at the Dean's 
house where I was being shy, and she asked me right out 
what I taught and I said poetry. Then she recited the whole 
thing and I was hooked.

Hooked like a little silver trout? Yes, caught with a berry 
and a thread. Just like that. But I don't want to think of 
that poem, especially not that poem, not tonight. You know 
how it goes, don't you? She called me by my name and ran, 
and faded through the brightening air. Don't fade away, 
Anne. I'm coming tonight, before the air brightens.

The lights of Roanoke pass on the right, leading down 
toward the Shenandoah Valley. For a short way there are 
street lights along the interstate, but then Geoffrey 
leaves them behind and the road gets dark again. Not as 
dark as for Anne. No, Geoffrey sees light everywhere. Under 
the moon the countryside is luscious, almost as beautiful 
as during the day, dotted with little lit-up homes that 
probably have people who are watching TV, secure and happy, 
maybe grumpy, maybe teasing each other, maybe running 
fingers around penis and vulva and embarrassed to be doing 
it with all the lights on. Anne would be amazed at so much 
light. It would blind her.

Wake up, Geoff!

What's Satan doing to her? Is he hurting her again, and 
taping it for his audience? Or is he forcing pleasure on 
her, standing there feeling his power, knowing however much 
he punishes her she can't resist him? He'll be taping that 
too, of course.

Or maybe she's dead. No. Maybe she died. Stop it! Maybe 
he's skinned her and has hung her carcass like a side of 
beef and is letting her age, so she'll be more tender when 
he eats her. No! But once the idea creeps in it doesn't 
want to leave.

Think! She was alive last night. I saw her! But maybe she 
died. No! It wasn't even a full day ago. You can die in an 
instant. He could kill her without even trying. Do you see 
her body? Do you see it hanging by the ankles, meat hooks 
through the ankles? She's alive! Really? Then maybe he's 
killing her right now.

Make the image go away. Try a poem again, a different poem. 
How's this one? Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps 
in this petty pace... Stop it! Wake up! I have to keep awake! 
Then what about this? I have known the inexorable sadness 
of pencils, neat in their boxes, dolor of pad and 
paperweight. Shit, oh shit. May as well go back to Yeats. 
Can't I remember any poems that end well? Maybe Dr. Seuss. 
Did I ever tell you how lucky you are? Oh fuck off!

Now other things push out the death thoughts, mainly sights 
from Satan's Web site, visuals of Anne being broken and 
feeling more ecstasy than Geoff could ever hope to give 
her.

There's one video in particular. Oh they all share the 
essentials, but this one.... Geoff forgets the moon and 
forgets the road. He almost forgets what he's doing because 
of what's in his mind. Anne coming and coming, Satan having 
worked her well with sorcery. She's coming, and while she 
does Satan opens her labia to show off her inner lips and 
mouth to the camera. The mouth is opening and closing, like 
that of a fish, or a monster, something alien. It's a 
flower, pink and muscular like a closed-up rose or tulip, 
but it's trying to find a penis to feed on. The petals open 
and close. Geoff has never seen anything like it. He can't 
get it out of his mind.

He also can't forget the aftermath. Breathless words. 
"Thank you, Victor. Thank you. Thank you. Oh God."

* * * * *

Anne floats at the bottom of the world, packed neatly in 
her pencil box. She can hear her breathing, and her moaning 
when she has air for moaning, if she is conscious enough to 
pay attention, but even then she doesn't always know she's 
the source. What can she feel? She can feel her shoulders 
ease from their sockets. She has nothing else, no sound, no 
sight, no smell, no movement, no sense of anything outside 
her skin. She is as alone as anyone has ever been, given 
forever to contemplate her insignificance. 

When she's less conscious she sometimes has brilliant 
visions and she takes deep breaths and smells the world and 
runs and flails her arms. When she's more conscious she 
struggles to breathe and remembers she has orders to think 
of her husband, though it makes her tremble to do it. What 
is she to think about? About discipline. When he put her in 
here he told her to think of a punishment severe enough to 
atone for disobedience. What did she do? She said something 
bad. Now she has to think of something harsh, and maybe 
when she does he'll come back.

She has to think of her husband because He's her world, her 
Lord. He rules the garden of earthly delights. So she 
trembles. Fear of her Lord is the beginning of wisdom. 
There used to be another world--wasn't there?--but that 
passed away. There was another man, but don't think of him. 
No. She was bad. He hated her. There's only Victor. How 
many eons has she been in this place? Someday He will 
return to let her see again and hear again and feel more 
pleasure and pain than she can endure. For now, though, 
there's only ache.

Please come, my darling. Please. My shoulders. They hurt 
so. I can't stand it anymore. Please hurry. I'll be so 
good. I'll do everything you want, only please, my 
shoulders. I'll be perfect. Oh God, they hurt. I can't, I 
just can't stand it anymore. Loosen me just for a minute, 
just for a second. Please, my darling. Please. Oh please.

If Victor were here he'd be intimate. He'd brush his 
whiskered cheeks across my neck, breathe into my ear. He'd 
make me kiss him. Kiss me. Be loving about it. Yes, 
darling. I will. Kiss you lovingly, your wonderful mouth. 
Oh please! My shoulders. 

It wouldn't always have been that way. It hasn't been long 
since she could resist, struggle, withdraw, feign, make an 
impression of full submission and love without being whole-
hearted. Was it so recently? She can't remember very well. 
She knows he hurt her relentlessly and kept her bound. He 
made her suffer until she faded out, and he began again 
when she came around, doing it forever, until she became 
obedient. Love me. Yes my love. Want me. Please, I want 
you. But she still keeps losing her way and doing something 
bad. If he were here he'd tell her, when you are really a 
very good girl I'll give you a little present, but not 
until then. Now let's continue your training, to help you 
overcome your will.

His voice is rich and breathy in her ear while he pulls 
back on her arms to make them hurt even more. You're 
forgetting. You're forgetting to submit. You want to assert 
yourself. You want me to undo what I want.

I'm sorry, darling. I try and I try, but I'm so weak. Oh my 
shoulders! Please, loosen them just a little? Please?

When was it that she became too weary to resist any 
further? She grew so tired. She was empty and it went on 
without end. He was never impatient about it. He didn't let 
her sleep, or rest, or move. All she could do was hurt and 
try to be loving for him. It was then it first came over 
her in a blaze of clarity, certainty that his will was 
right and true and he was worthy of her absolute devotion. 
But she keeps forgetting--she's so stupid, such a useless 
bitch--and he has to begin all over, until she remembers 
again. If only she can make herself be good enough for him. 

He's still speaking. Submit. Remember the pleasure I get 
from this. Think of my desire.

I am, darling, but I just can't stand it. I need your help. 
Please help me.

* * * * *

Wake up, Geoff, you asshole! 

Remember what you have to do. You have to kill that son of 
a bitch and take her away. How should I do it? Just kill 
him. Shoot the bastard and take her from him. Carry Anne 
away with you. Take her home with you, your love forever. 
Make her safe. Hold her. Care for her and bring her back to 
the world of light and love, sweet soft fucking in the 
afternoon, her body warm against your back at night, her 
breath on your neck. Run your lips down the side of her 
neck. Remember how she smelled? Caress her as she sleeps. 
Gently. That's right. Like that. Move your hands over all 
her hills and hollows. Drive down into the valley where 
she's waiting. The valley is hills and hollows. The moon 
lights it like candles light Anne, coolly and evenly, 
leaving a half shadow between her labia, like the 
headlights along the highway with a half shadow between 
them, moving into the night, into her mystery. My Anne. My 
darling. She wakes already inflamed, already with a catch 
in her breathing, already wanting, and it's exactly here 
that Geoffrey runs off the road.

The car veers to the right, onto the shoulder where it hits 
gravel and sounds like a bag of marbles emptied onto the 
floor, so when Geoffrey wakes he is disorganized, thinking 
about marbles. He jerks the wheel back and the car 
fishtails. A car shooting past him honks a long warning. 
The right rear fender bangs against the railing, then he 
has control again and he brings the car over to a stop.

He starts crying. In a second he's bawling like a baby. 
"I'm sorry Anne! I'm sorry! I can't do it. I don't know. 
I'm afraid I can't. I can't stay awake to get to you." 

Stop it, damn it! Make yourself stop! If you break down she 
dies. You have to do it. No one else can. Well, why didn't 
you call the police? They might have gone to her. I don't 
know. They wouldn't have. Maybe they would have. It's too 
late, now. I have to keep going. You thought she'd come 
back to you if you were the big hero who rescued her. Well, 
she won't. She won't come back to you at all. Dreaming 
about being with her isn't going to help anything. She's 
not yours anymore. I know. I know. It's true. I'm sorry, 
Anne. I'll concentrate more. I have to save you. Then I 
have to let you go.

Geoffrey cries a minute or two longer, before he can make 
himself stop, then he shakes himself and reaches to the 
back seat for a soft drink from the cooler. Open it. Drink. 
He grabs a flashlight and gets out to check the damage to 
the car. There's a fender crease, maybe a yard long. He 
shines the light all over the right rear tire, feels it. 
"Shit!" Finally he gets back in, starts the engine and 
takes off again. The moon lights the valley below while he 
works to keep himself awake.

* * * * *

Anne has been struggling with herself, but she can't stop 
whimpering or trying to move. She's forgotten how to submit 
properly. He'll have to help her some more. If he would put 
his erection to her face she would show how good she can 
be. She would suck him sweetly while he hurt her so he 
could be pleasured by having her moan around his glans. She 
would treat his penis so lovingly, so softly, to make him 
happy. She might make him happy enough.

Where am I? How did I come here?

Anne is on her knees, open to him as always. While he pulls 
on her arms he pushes a thumb all the way into her rectum, 
plumbing the depth, while two other fingers plow her 
vagina. Maybe she's been good enough. Maybe he's going to 
give her a present, a respite. Please, love. Then he's 
caught her womb and her ass tightly, but his fingers come 
out and tickle her labia, all the way up to the end, then 
down, then again, then again, jacking up her desire, until 
there's nothing in her world but his face at hers, the 
smell of his breath and the whispered words of what he'll 
make her do to show her devotion. While he hurts her 
shoulders his thumb fucks her and his fingers touch and 
withdraw, over and over, barely touching her, just enough 
to keep her high. He tells her what she has to do. What is 
it? 

Please no, darling. Oh! Oh! Please no. I can't do that. 
Please, I couldn't. Please, no. Oh! Please don't make me. 
Please no. She says that even though he's telling her he'll 
loosen her shoulders and flood her with pleasure once she 
says "yes." It must be a long time before she is aware once 
again that she can't move, can't speak, can't see, can't 
hear, can't do anything at all, and that she is completely 
alone. The throbbing in her shoulders overwhelms the 
throbbing in her sex.

* * * * *

It's not like last night, not in any way at all. Even the 
moon is different. Geoffrey is out in the country, but it's 
different. Gravel rattles under the car, and the moon 
lights a cloud of dust behind him. This country is 
different. It's close to Satan. Geoffrey can feel him. He 
just can't feel Anne.

There is a house far back from the road, up a dirt 
driveway, surrounded by fields of grass that have begun to 
release mist into the night. There are no near neighbors. 
As Geoffrey drives over the gravel he thinks of marbles and 
of almost crashing. He also thinks this is no site for a 
video studio. There's a mercury vapor light on a pole 
between the house and a shed, so bright the siding seems to 
gleam, both floors glowing in the night, but there are no 
other lights. It's only a few minutes after eleven. There 
should be lights. Don't dwell on what this could mean.

He drives past the house and around a bend, then turns 
around. What does the place remind him of? "Sleepy Hollow." 

Geoffrey drives back without headlights and stops a few 
hundred yards from the house. On the back seat are some 
night vision goggles. Through them the world stands out as 
fuzzy green on black. Can this be the place? It can't be. 
Well, what's here? A liquid propane tank. A car. One car. 
It's Anne's car! Anne's car. Anne's. Concentrate, dummy! 
What else is there? There's a large satellite dish. Where's 
Satan's car?

What if it's not the place? A premonition. Maybe it's just 
a diversion. What if they're three states away? What if 
Anne is dying across the continent, in L.A.? Okay, Geoffy, 
get down to business. If it's not the place I'll know in a 
few minutes. There's no sign of electronic devices. Though 
Satan would certainly be able to hide things. If he has 
them I can't sneak up. Where's that flak jacket? Damn it, I 
paid enough for it. I know I brought it! Load the gun. Stop 
shaking. Stop shaking. Control. Control. Deep breaths. Now 
drive right up to the door. Go in with force. Gun stuck in 
my belt. Safety off. Ready? Go.

The driveway has no gate. No security. That seems to be a 
thing with Satan. Geoffrey roars up the long road, the car 
bumping and hitting bottom twice, making dust. Making 
noise. Close in, he can see window and door bars. Geoffrey 
gets out of the car with three different size crow bars to 
attack the security door. It takes less than a minute to 
spring it.

Jesus, it's shoddy!

Then to the wood door. It takes almost no time at all. He 
crashes through it and falls to the floor with the gun in 
front of him, scanning the room with the night goggles and 
listening. There's no sound at all. He goes through the 
house, turning on lights, first the ground floor, then the 
second. It's only afterwards that he thinks he should have 
used the night goggles all along. He was making himself a 
great target for anyone sitting in a darkened room. But no 
one was sitting there. No one is here at all.

* * * * *

Every so often a panic sweeps over Anne and she tries to 
scream and move her arms and legs. She can't do it for more 
than a few seconds before she gets light-headed and can't 
breathe, after which she shivers some more and makes little 
squeaks and slips back into a state that is close to, but 
not quite, unconsciousness. 

* * * * *

The house is full of prints and photos of nudes. Some of 
them are noir, but not all. They aren't even pornographic. 
Some are reproductions of famous works. Otherwise the house 
seems completely domestic, the home of someone educated and 
refined. It's tasteful, not showy. Mixed furniture. Danish 
mixed with art deco mixed with old, leather-covered trunks 
and dark oak armoires. Lawyer's bookshelves hold a mixture 
of old, leather-bound books and paperbacks. The kitchen is 
contemporary, open and bright, with a butcher-block in the 
center. There isn't a smidgen of a mote of a hint that it 
covers a torture chamber, but it must.

And of course it does. 

Geoffrey finds the basement door just off the kitchen. It's 
like nothing else in the house and he knows it must be what 
he's looking for. No other door would be steel, or fastened 
with two heavy padlocks. She must here. Pry on the locks, 
Geoff. Shit! Get the toolbox. There may only be two locks, 
but it takes twenty minutes with the power saw to get 
through them. A blade breaks half way through. There aren't 
any other special problems, though. 

There's an ordinary light switch just inside the door. 
Ordinary wood stairs, smooth, bare, two-by-fours lead to a 
landing. It is bare and smooth, too. A mundane stair. More 
stairs descend to the cement floor. Satan has to have some 
other security devices, doesn't he? Alarms? Cameras? 

By the time Geoff has reached the landing he can see the 
whole layout. It's all here, spread out across the basement 
floor. The stage lights, the cameras, the treadmill. There 
are contraptions all over for immobilizing and displaying 
Anne. Geoffrey hasn't even seen them all on the Web site. 
He walks down into it. There aren't any sounds but his 
footsteps. Directly at the foot of the stairs is the device 
Satan uses to stretch her. It seems out of place, as though 
Satan has moved things around. Geoff runs a hand over it. 
It is a beautiful piece of furniture, polished, smooth, 
varnished. It reflects the computer's screen saver, showing 
tiny, reverse images of women being tortured. Anne isn't 
one of them. She isn't down here. She doesn't seem to be 
anywhere.

But there are shadowed areas. There are corners and 
separate rooms, and areas that are hidden behind the 
furnace, the water heater, pillars, the AC, a deep freeze, 
duct work. The place is a labyrinth. The floor isn't even; 
at one end it rises toward the ceiling, so that Geoff has 
to stoop to walk along it. He half-creeps to his left, 
around a corner, then turns another left and is in a narrow 
dark place. The floor descends again. After a moment he can 
stand erect. A few more feet and he turns left again and is 
back in the main area of the cellar, at the far end from 
where he began. 

 From here he can see the space under the landing. It seems 
to have a doorway, though it is small. Fit only for a 
rabbit. Or Alice. Or Anne. Geoffrey shines the flashlight 
under the landing and there it is. He gets a tingling 
across his back and up his arms. I'm here Anne. Please be 
alive. One more steel door, though not as small as he'd 
thought. How had it seemed so tiny? This one only has a 
deadbolt, so once Geoff gets his toolbox he's through it in 
five minutes. 

This is the place. Finally. It has to be. Geoffrey stoops a 
little to enter, and it really is awfully tiny, really just 
a closet, absolutely black. It smells damp and earthy, but 
when he sweeps it with the flashlight the whole thing looks 
concrete. And there's the box. Just sitting there, in the 
middle of the floor. In the belly of the beast, he thinks. 
Again there is an ordinary switch, and a single bulb. 

Jesus fucking Christ! 

In the light the box is even smaller than it looked on the 
net. Flat-black paint, rectangular, completely sealed. Like 
a trunk. A clear tube comes out the middle of one end and 
nestles on the floor. There's a latch, but no lock, just a 
dirty bolt pushed through the hasp. Geoffrey pulls it out 
and opens the top, which is heavy, filled with insulation 
and lined with cloth. It opens with a squeak, and as he 
swings it up and back there's a powerful stench of urine.

And there's Anne. 

She's hunched far down inside. In the belly of the belly of 
the beast. For a moment Geoff doesn't know what to do. He 
just stares at her.

She is exactly as in the video, closed in on all sides by 
Styrofoam, her head far, far down in the stock, Her face is 
completely encased in a vinyl mask, and she must still have 
the ear and nose plugs. Her arms are secured with 
handcuffs. She's tiny, hardly child sized, so much smaller 
than he remembers, with bones that push outwards against 
her skin. There's a recurrent raspy sound where the tube 
from the floor ends at her mouth. 

She surely feels the movement of the box and the cool air. 
She has felt nothing at all, for how long? She undulates 
and the sweat of her back, which had pooled in the hollow 
places, runs down her sides.

Geoffrey touches her. Her spine feels sharp under the 
thinnest skin he can imagine. God. Annie. He touches her 
again. He wants to keep touching her but he has work to do. 
He loosens the nut and lifts the top half of the stock from 
her neck. He takes the straps off her ankles. She begins to 
move her head back and forth a little and make little, 
whining noises. Geoff gets excited. When he bends to lift 
her out of the box, the breathing tube pulls out of her 
gag.

Damn, she's light!

Geoffrey sits Anne on the floor and holds her with his left 
arm behind her back while he tries to unfasten her. She 
sits with legs splayed, head falling backwards, making a 
whistling sound through the rubber ball. The gag is easy. 
It comes away slimy. The mask adheres to her skin and makes 
a tearing sound as it comes off. Anne's flesh is damp under 
it. The hair under the mask is plastered to her head. She 
seems blind. The nose and ear plugs aren't any problem. 
They pull right out. She's trying to move her legs, to 
stretch them, and to move her head. She's making those 
mewing sounds, and panting. Then her eyes seem to focus and 
she knows who he is.

"Geoffy! Geoffy!" She look like she's yelling but he can 
hardly hear her. 

"Geoffy!"

She doesn't have enough wind to push her words or even to 
make sentences. 

"Geoffy!" She doesn't believe it. She looks around for her 
husband and tries a sentence. "I'm sorry. Geoffy. I'm. 
Sorry. Help. Me. I'm sorry. Please. I tried to be. Be good. 
Geoffy. But I. Couldn't." She looks all around the room 
again. She's shivering. "Geoffy!"

"It'll be okay, Anne. I'm here."

"Geoffy!"

He carries her out to the main basement area, Anne shaking 
harder, her head on his shoulder, whimpering more. He can't 
believe her lightness. She doesn't weigh anything. She 
almost floats in his arms. Every few seconds she wheezes 
his name.

The desk has dozens of keys, the very first one of which 
fits the cuffs. He removes them and Anne's arms fall 
straight down to her sides. It's like they're attached only 
by skin. She is utterly flaccid, and passive, but she keeps 
saying, "Geoffy!" She really can't believe he's here. She 
doesn't understand anything.

The corset straps are a problem. They're much too tight to 
unfasten so Geoffrey lays Anne on the concrete and rummages 
through his tool box for a box cutter, slices through them, 
and peels the corset off. There's another tearing sound. It 
leaves behind a brown scum of old sweat and dead skin. Anne 
begins to get air in a series of gasping, phlegm-clotted 
wheezes. She coughs, breathes, coughs, breathes some more. 
It's some time before she can control the coughing, and she 
wheezes the whole time. Her breath is foul. There's some 
sort of rattling sound when she inhales.

Get going, Geoff. Up the stairs. It's like carrying an 
eight year old. Geoffrey looks upward but he keeps seeing 
the box, below in the closet, holding Anne down in the 
darkness. Concrete. Nothingness. Anne.

9-1-1. Come on! Come on! Geoff has to lay Anne on a couch 
to call, and she says something that sounds like she's 
becoming aware.

"No Geoffy. No police. Please. No police. He'll be mad!"

He leans down and puts a hand to her cheek. She is cold 
now, still damp. Her small breasts are absurdly well 
defined, there being no fat to soften them.

"It's okay, Annie. We need them. I'll be with you the whole 
time, okay?" Anne tries to use her hands. She inches her 
arms along, takes one of his hands with both of hers, and 
pulls it to her face. "Geoffy, Geoffy. He'll punish me. For 
being bad." She coughs some more while he talks to the 9-1-
1 operator. Her cough is ragged and coarse. Then,

"Where are your clothes?"

"Clothes? I..." She looks at him blankly. "Geoffy."

"I'll go look."

"No!" She grabs his hand. Where did she get that strength? 
"Don't leave, Geoffy! He'll punish me! Don't leave! Tell 
him I tried! Tell him!" She starts coughing again and it 
looks like she's crying, but there aren't any tears. The 
coughing seems to hurt her. She holds on to Geoffrey's hand 
and coughs and tries to say "No!" through the coughs, and 
finally Geoffrey holds her to him and caresses her damp 
hair. 

"Okay. Okay, Annie. I won't leave you. I promise." 

"He'll punish me!"

"No he won't Anne. Never again. He'll never hurt you 
again."

"But he will!"

Geoffrey looks her in the face for a minute, patting her 
hair. "Anne, he can't hurt you anymore because I'm here."

"He will." But there is uncertainty in her voice.

"Listen to me, Anne. Listen." He kisses her forehead. "If 
he ever comes back I will kill him. I will. I will kill 
him. He can never come back, ever again." Geoffrey says 
this in as calm and matter-of-fact a voice as he can 
manage, and Anne stares up at him as though she can't 
comprehend what he means, but she becomes calmer.

He carries her back to the bedroom. It isn't any trouble, 
though he catches himself staring at her body. Her clothes 
are where they've probably been for months, in her closet 
and dresser as in any middle-class bedroom, your private, 
safe place. He dresses her in a little short-sleeved 
blouse, panties, and slacks. The slacks won't stay up, so 
he uses a safety pin at the waist to make them fit. Then he 
carries her to the kitchen. 

* * * * *

That's where the police find them, in the kitchen. Anne is 
curled on Geoffrey's lap, her head on his shoulder, looking 
like a sick child, and he is giving her sips of water from 
a glass. Shreds of bread and an open tuna can show that he 
has fed her a little. 

A paramedic tries to take Anne to a gurney. "No, no, no, 
no, no! Geoffy! Geoff!" They can't get her to let go of 
him.

"Come on, son," says an older cop. "We need to ask you some 
questions." But the result is the same. Geoffrey strokes 
Anne's hair and kisses her face. "There, there, Annie. I'm 
here." She is shivering again. Finally he looks 
apologetically at the cop. 

"I'm sorry, officer. I can't go anywhere as long as she's 
like this. I'm not going to try to get away. Can you 
interview me here?" So they do. "Send someone down to the 
basement. Look at the set-up where he tortured her. And 
look at the box he kept her in." 

One paramedic examines Anne while the other begins a 
glucose drip. As long as she can hold some part of Geoffrey 
she cooperates.

When the police come back up, their attitude has changed 
completely. They call for criminalists to catalogue the 
basement, and they arrange for an arrest order for Victor. 
The older cop asks if Anne really had been kept in that 
box, but Geoffrey isn't paying much attention anymore. He 
holds Anne and tries to answer questions, but he keeps 
finding himself waking with his head leaning on hers. 

More strange people come and go, more all the time. Every 
time Geoffrey raises his head off Anne's there are new 
people. He wants to be helpful but he can't keep himself 
awake. At some point a pack of reporters gathers just 
outside the crime scene tape, to film everything and shout 
questions. Then the paramedics wake Geoffrey enough to have 
him help get Anne onto a gurney, and he holds both her 
hands and leans over her to calm her and shield her from 
the reporters, while someone else guides them past the 
press and into the EMS van. He will never know how his car 
gets to the hospital. All he knows is that she holds him 
the whole way. She burrows her face into his chest, right 
up by his underarm, and he keeps his face against her cheek 
and whispers to her, when he isn't nodding off, about how 
everything is going to be fine now, and he is shocked at 
himself to find he is happier than he can remember ever 
having been.

End of Part Four.


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