stockholm syndrome.

- two.

Your room was white with neutral colored furniture. Black, white, and gold. Even the carpet was white. Looks like I'll have to be careful, you thought. Gasoline was talking, and you weren't listening, as you were too busy admiring the room. He grabbed your wrist tightly, and you knew your (s/c) skin would later be bruised. "Yo, you listenin'?" You nodded, half lying. You caught the gist of what he was saying, stuff like to drop everything to see what he wants when he calls you, and do what he asks with no question. He continued talking, "And when my niggas here, you gon' do what they ask. But ain't gon' be no fuckin', no top, no twerkin', no lap dances, none of that. You here to serve me. Do some foul shit, and there's finna be serious consequences."

You nodded, not daring to ask what. "What about clothes?"

"One of my bitches comin', she got you some clothes," he replied. "If you get the munchies, you know where the kitchen at," he stated before walking out. You sat on the bed, rubbing your eyes and laying down to stare at the ceiling until you fell asleep.