Stockholm Syndrome? ✔

S.S 12

I didn't normally dream. That night was different. I didn't know if being intimate with the boy was in my subconscious or if it had been the result of what transpired that night, but I found myself dreaming of him moaning my name. It was a dream to be embarrassed about yet it was something I didn't want to end. We almost reached new heights together until I felt myself being drawn to the present.

I spontaneously awoke and for a few seconds I cursed my body for inadvertently betraying me. I'd been so close to intense pleasure I had never felt. Down below underneath my sheets, something was standing ramrod straight. I almost grinned but I realized something else.

The boy wasn't on the bed.

I could recall our night of passion, every stroke and every explosion. I could see his eyes in my mind's eye. I just couldn't see him in the room.

I pushed the sheets away quickly, cursing myself for letting my weakness get the better of me. In a moment of desire that I couldn't even begin to describe, I had let my guard down. It was the first time I had experienced desire of that sort but I should have known better. The boy was my captive after all.

I shouldn't have been swayed by his soft porcelain skin or the eyes that held no secrets. I shouldn't have gotten to know how tight he was or his soft moans of pleasure.

I put on my boxers and raced to the kitchen which was nearer to the main door. If the boy was trying to escape he'd be there. There was a secret passageway just behind one of the walls in the master bathroom, but I doubted he had located it. The passage was one of the additions I had made to the house. It allowed me to escape if someone came looking for me and somehow gained entrance into the house.

I walked into the kitchen to a sight I didn't expect to see. The boy was slaving over a stove while humming a song. He was fully clothed. He didn't look like someone trying to escape.

I leaned on the kitchen entrance wall.

"What are you doing?" I enquired firmly, raising a brow.

I caught him off guard because he jumped slightly. He turned to me.

"God your voice is scary", he said and moved a little to the side of the stove. I could see a frying pan there.

"I'm making breakfast", he said simply. "If I'm on death row I deserve to eat something I at least like. Death-row inmates get offered a special meal of their choice on the last day, you know".

I raised a brow, finding him making breakfast in my kitchen made me question his sanity. Most kidnapped people would have been looking for ways to escape or something to threaten me with, not ways to please their palates. I doubted even food addicts would simply 'make breakfast'.

"Most people would be finding ways to escape", I mentioned dryly.

"Believe me I tried. I couldn't come up with a password beyond "psycho" and "maniac". Even "shitface" didn't work", he said.

"Phone?" I asked pointing to the telephone just next to the stove.

"Are you deliberately trying to annoy me? You know very well even your phone has a passcode. I nearly broke the damn thing! And of course looking for my phone or yours yielded nothing", he said.

I shrugged with a grin on my face. "What are you making?"

"Pancakes", he said.

"With what?" I asked. I couldn't remember buying anything that would make a pancake.

"You'd be surprised what you have in here", he said. "And yes, I checked the expiry dates".

"You know, according to William S. Burroughs; nobody owns life, but anyone who can pick up a frying pan owns death", I said.