Discipline by Lena Little
8
Delilah
The next night
I pace my room, the hands on the Minnie Mouse clock on the wall pointing to seven and twelve. One hour to go until Larry. And as if he’s thinking about it just as intently as I am my phone vibrates on the nightstand. Normally Larry would send me text messages but this time he’s decided on something different. It’s a shot of me and Daniel taking from what appears to be a long-lens camera from across the street. Based on my clothes it looks like it was taken yesterday.
If I find out your bodyguard beat me to popping that cherry our deal’s off. And I will check. There better be blood on the sheets when we’re done.
“Gross,”I cough, tossing the phone onto the bed. I swear I need a shower every time after I get a message from this prick. Stepping into the shower I do just that, wiping off the thought of him, and start preparing to get ready to become his human sacrifice.
As I stepout and start to dry myself I wonder where Daniel is. He said he’d be gone for awhile but do I ever wish that ‘awhile’ was up. I need him here with me, to help me through this rough patch. I need my Daddy Bear. There’s just no way around it.
Forcingmyself to push through the pain I get ready, trying to keep a strong upper lip so Larry doesn’t get turned on at the sight of my fear. He strikes me as the kind of prick who would off on that exact kind of thing. I bet he’s the type of guy who couldn’t get a girl off no matter how hard he tried, which is why he has to resort to these kinds of tricks just to get some action. Although ‘action’ is the least of what I’m going to give him. I’m determined to just lay there like a dead fish, figuring he’ll finish in less than a minute flat and the whole thing will be over with. The only problem is that he wants to see blood, and I doubt I can produce that…but a couple of packets of McDonald’s ketchup sure as hell can, and he won’t be smart enough to know the difference.
I grabmy purse and walk into the kitchen, searching through the drawer with all the various sauces we get from the delivery we order. Part of me wants to grab the packet of habanero sauce that came with my Burrito Loco burrito, and squeeze it right in his eye when he looks at my body for the first time. I laugh, and wisely reach for the ketchup, staying on plan. And then I walk out the door, ready to meet my fate, resigned to the fact that Daniel’s not going to miraculously show up after all, despite my being so sure all day that he would.
