Wandering into the shower room, I scoop up the cami top and shorts left in a pile on the floor. The compulsion to bury my face into the fabric wins. I breathe in her natural scent, agreeing with the heady rush of blood rocketing straight to my dick.
It’s heaven.
With her garments seized, I stroke and choke my cursed hard-on. What I miss in fluid female traction, I gain in her fragrance combined with my spittle. Then I mop up the cum with her shorts and crumple the damn things into a ball.
Fuck!
Temporary psychosis pumps through my hard-working veins. A bead of sweat trails the span of my shoulder blades. This intense preoccupation is one-sided. She’ll never bow down to a man who’s keeping her hostage. But it’s that fight, that inner clash that raises my temperature a few degrees higher than normal.
I should stare at my reflection and talk myself out of my next plan, yet my oasis has no place for mirrors. Guests aren’t granted the privilege of mourning the person they once were, only greet the redesigned persona they’ve become. The transformation runs its course, and on the final day, they’re introduced to a new identity.
I’ll never leave. My inner turmoil will never be tamed or modified or even forgotten. There’s no hope for me beyond the realms of my territory. I'm the same man I was the day I landed, perhaps a streak more bitter and a lot more twisted. A reflection won’t show me what I know truly lives beneath my skin.
What I plan to do next is free her deception and cast my little hummingbird to the side.
13
Iris
How have I ended up in a man’s world, wearing butch clothes and swilling a mop in a bucket? Beyond the mirage of paradise, lives a network of hardworking serpentine veins leading to the heart of a vision—an ideal.
Not only have I fallen into another dimension, but I’ve also encountered a monster without boundaries, morals, or respect.
My day dwindled from the breaking of day to nightfall, trapped indoors with rags, eucalyptus essential oil, and an assortment of ecologically clean ingredients. It was a surprise to learn the oasis focuses on sustainability, only allowing products that won’t impact the environment. Apparently, el Fantasma gives back more than he takes. I had to bite my tongue when Sal sang his praises. From my experience, he confines and threatens. Takes and keeps on taking.
I considered telling him about the incident outside the staff cabana. Except Sal is loyal to a fault—devoted to my enemy. What would I say exactly? Your boss fingered me against my wishes, made the earth shake and my heart pound. That would really get the defense hackles raised. I bet he’d pat me on the back, wink, and then give me a high five.
Unlocking the door to my suite, I shiver in relief when a fresh lick of invigorating air chills my face. Each slow inhalation offers a reminder that I’m alive, even if I’m traipsing through life without a purpose. It’s an inside joke how this room temporarily snips the nightmare in two. I find comfort in a personal hideout nestled in remoteness and ruled by oppression.
The overhead fan whirs, replacing the tireless rhythm of nature. Momentarily, I pretend this is a swanky eco-village, and Emmie is in the next cabin with my parents. Then I flip off my cap and shake out my curls. Indulging in dreams won’t change reality. The ache in my head intensifies. This isn’t a vacation. It's luxury masking hell.
I pinky swore. I promised Emmie I’d be home in time for her thirteenth birthday. With a decade between us, I adore my parents' late life miracle baby as if she was my daughter. We have a bond. A sisterly love. She doesn’t deserve to live through this crippling misery.
That’s what burns beneath my skin most of all. El Fantasma hasn’t only hurt me, he’s shattered her perfect world. A trembling palm skates to my heart, accepting the agony of breaking a promise.
On the bed, a folded satin nightdress with shoestring straps rests next to several pairs of silky panties rolled up like cigars. Beside them, there is a tray dressed with a cotton napkin, tall glass of sunny juice and a rainbow fruit salad in a coconut bowl.
It’s a pleasant surprise, given my throat is tight from holding in frustration. As usual, I shed the unsightly uniform and mosey into the shower room to wash off the long day. Immersed under the tepid water, I close my eyes. The second they shut, I’m plagued with a peridot gaze and a hot swell between my thighs.
Bastard.
I’m physically held captive, and now thoughts of him harass my privacy, inciting wrongful intrigue and deceitful feelings. He’s a parasite invading a forced host. Underneath our bad blood, an insane spark awakens something reckless in me. I refuse to accept it. I’m not willing to become a mindless female who worships a master. I won’t invent an el Fantasma syndrome where he becomes my everything. I loathe him more than the depleting fires that obliterate the fragile ecosystem and threaten the extinction of rare species.
The glass panel wobbles under the force of my furious fist. My eyelids ping open, welcoming steam and a lush landscape while banishing the recollection of his roaming fingers. He’s in my head, and it scares the hell out of me. Instead of beating myself up about it, I focus on lathering shampoo and polishing my legs from ankle to thigh with an oily salt scrub, freeing myself from the imprint of absurdity.
Supremely soft towels wrap around me in a comforting embrace, reminding me of another simple gesture he’s stolen. This isn’t the life I’ve chosen. Whatever that would look like. I wasn’t certain how my ideal future would actually look. My parents expected weddings, followed closely by children. They were overjoyed when Keith proposed. I got caught up in everyone else’s ideals. It felt like something I should do rather than what I wanted to do. Marriage was expected even though my one true aspiration was becoming an ecologist and dedicating my life to saving the planet.
The dream was that simple. Not lavish and unattainable. And now I’m a nobody.
Wandering back into the bedroom, I collapse beside the tray. Beads of moisture run the length of the glass, from top to bottom, tempting me with a promise to satisfy my thirst.
This afternoon, Sal accompanied me to the staff cabana for lunch. For the entire break, I watched the door, pleading for space. That’s exactly what we got. El Fantasma didn't appear. In that period of grace, I devoured a bowl of spiced fish and enjoyed a shot of sugary espresso. It kept me going for the rest of the day, until now.
I pick at the chopped fruit, eyeing the cocktail in a highball glass with crushed ice, long bamboo straw, and a thin wedge of lime.
An aqua blue radiance reflects birds in flight under a low setting sun on the terrace beyond the windows. It lures me to the outside deck where I sit on a curved wicker lounger, taking my time to enjoy the refreshing juice. It has an odd taste—a little bitter with syrupy sweetness and a pinch of something peculiar.
The tropical sun slides to the treetops, closing the curtain on my first full day in servitude. I consider how long I can survive before my mind snaps.
If he keeps his distance, I can figure something out.
I’ll never stop fighting for freedom or seeking a way to escape.
Lying back, my lashes flutter, heavy and unruly. An army of tingles marches over my legs. Pivoting sideways, I manage to set the empty highball glass on a bamboo table before slumping to my back again. The strange sensation running through me must be the evening humidity or from hours spent cleaning.