Under Control: A BDSM Love Story

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has read my story and rated! I truly appreciate it! And a BIG thank you to CandyCaner for the nice review! Kudos for popping the review cherry, btw. Just asking everyone to hang in there through all the boring character development. I promise the plot is about to thicken quite nicely ;) And now, on with the show!

You let me violate you
You let me desecrate you
You let me penetrate you
You let me complicate you

-- Nine Inch Nails, “Closer”



Unsurprisingly, I was back in his office the next day. And I say unsurprisingly because I really am chicken shit. In spite of being extremely uncomfortable about this entire thing, and in spite of the fact that I couldn’t care less what my boss wants me to do, I continued going to these stupid sessions.

Even worse: I was taking vacation and sick time from work in order to go, due to Hector’s inconvenient office hours. I don’t know why. It wasn’t like I was really getting anything out of it, except maybe an excuse to get out of work in the first place. Maybe it was the fact that finally, after living alone for so long, I was getting a chance to really talk to someone. And even though I knew he was a stranger, and even though I knew he was probably silently judging me with those cold, hazel eyes of his… something about it made me feel… better.

I really am a sap.

The questions during the second session weren’t as hard to answer, and I got the distinct feeling that he was taking it easy on me, in a way. Maybe the questions during the first session were simply his way of seeing just how far I would let him delve into my psyche. In either case, there was no outrage involved on the second day, and it felt mostly just like any other therapy. The week passed by rather uneventfully. Hector insisted I was continuing to make progress, and to prove that to myself, I kept in touch with my friends. They were glad to hear from me, and I was glad I had tapped into this hidden inner strength I didn’t know I had.



I’d like to say that’s how it carried on for the rest of the six months. But it didn’t.

It was the end of the second week into therapy, and Hector and I had actually made arrangements so that I could come in for one hour after work, instead of skipping work in order to attend sessions. So far, his business hadn’t quite gotten off the ground, though he said it was due to his own procrastination and not because of me. I, of course, didn’t believe him. But I digress.

I stepped into his office, which had slowly become more and more organized over the weeks. Boxes had been moved and unpacked, files were put away, and it really was beginning to resemble a real business. As usual, Hector did not come out to greet me.

“Hello?” I called out, unsure of whether or not he was there. Hearing no response, I made my way into his back office area.

Having no windows, it was pitch black with the lights off. I was relatively familiar with my surroundings by that time, and so reached over to switch the lights on.

Before I could even blink, I was grabbed from behind.

I had never been attacked or kidnapped by anyone before, and so it was purely out of instinct and desperation that I let out the loudest scream I could and struggled for dear life. The arms around me were strong. I’m not the smallest woman in the world, and yet it seemed to take the person no effort to hold me fast. Soon the hand clamped over my mouth, muffling my screams as I was pulled into the room and the door shut behind me.

I didn’t know if the blackness came from being in the dark room or if I fainted. But the next thing I knew, I was seated in a chair. I could not move my arms, and I soon realized it was because they were bound behind me. There was a pressure on my face that I didn’t quite understand until I opened my mouth to speak. I had been gagged. As the situation dawned on me, I began to make peace with God. I was pretty sure I was about to be killed.



“Hello, Delilah,” came the deep, soothing voice I had come to know so well. “How are we doing today?”

I couldn’t answer due to the gag in my mouth, but I doubt it really would have mattered. Clearly this man was a psychopath.

“Good,” he said in that way of his, even though I hadn’t said a thing. “Are you ready to get started?”

I struggled with my bonds, which were cutting into my ankles and my wrists. It turned out my ankles had been tied to the legs of the chair. There was obviously no escaping this. In spite of myself, I couldn’t help trying to ask him, “Why are you doing this?” Of course it came out muffled, but I didn’t care.

“I’m sorry, Delilah, but that’s for me to know.” I could hear him walk a few steps and then I heard a click. I squinted my eyes, temporarily blinded by the light. He looked at me with his hazel eyes, and simply stood there, the very picture of perfection. Even in my frightened position I could see that. He wore his typical outfit, only this time his sleeves were rolled up and his belt was off. I assumed he had used it to bind me. Through my numbness I wondered how someone as cold and contemplating as he was could forget to come better prepared.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” he said, slowly pacing over to his desk. I followed him, unwilling to be surprised by any sudden actions he might take. “And what I want you to do… is just let it go. Whatever you’re thinking of, let it go.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” I murmured through the gag.

“Shh….” he said, putting a finger to his lips in a hushing manner. “You’re not listening to me.” With that, he leaned forward toward me so that his face was almost nose-to-nose with mine. His hands were on my shoulders, and I shrank away from his touch. “You may not understand what I’m doing, but I promise you… I promise, this is for your own good. Now stop thinking. Do you understand me?”

I considered this for a moment. This man was crazy. He had me gagged and tied to a chair. Obviously I did not want to make this man angry. And at the same time, some sick part of me felt that maybe he really did think he knew what he was doing. Some twisted side of me wanted to know exactly how he intended to help me. I nodded my assent.

He stood up and turned away from me, heading behind his desk. I could hear him sliding open a drawer and reaching in slowly and carefully. He took out whatever he was reaching for a closed the desk again, and walked back over to stand in front of me. In his hands was a rather large bowie knife. My eyes widened and I began struggling in my bonds, but to no avail. It occurred to me that I knew there was no escaping whatever he had planned for me. It also occurred to me that I didn’t much care. This is a moment I had been waiting for, for a long, long time. Whether I was ready for it or not didn’t matter.

“You are in a dire situation, Delilah,” he said, his voice low and even; his eyes cold and grim. “This is what you hear about all the time on the news. A girl goes missing. Her body is found ten days later, defiled and mutilated. The murder weapon,” he said, lifting the knife as if to admire it, “is something like this.”

I began shaking my head uncontrollably, as though denying the situation would make it not real. I even cried a little. Mostly I was in too much shock to believe this was even happening.

“People are often under the false impression that murder is something that only takes place between strangers. You walk down a dark alleyway at night and you’re jumped by gang members, shot and left for dead simply because they want your wallet. Right?”

I didn’t budge. The way he was gesturing with the knife made knots in my stomach. I felt about ready to piss myself.

“Wrong,” he answered, squatting down so that he was eye level with me. “There was a girl in my town when I was in high school. She was popular, beautiful, smart… wouldn’t hurt a fly. She was found dead in a sewer the day after New Year’s, killed by a boy she had been friends with. He was obsessed with her. The police found stolen pairs of her panties in his closet.” He gave me a meaningful look before standing up once more. “So the question is,” he continued, pacing slowly around me, “if you can’t even trust your friends,” and here he leaned over behind me so that his lips were next to my ear, “who can you trust?”

I began whining, a high-pitched keening noise that emitted from my throat. I wasn’t above acting like a scared puppy at this point. I knew he was going to kill me.

“Delilah, you don’t trust anyone. I know you hardly even have the will to keep any friends. You’re afraid of abandonment. You’re afraid to make new friends because you think that everyone is out to hurt you. I’ll bet the fear you’re feeling right now isn’t even because of this,” he said, reaching over my shoulder so that the knife was in my clear view. “You were afraid of me the moment you saw me. Because when I came into your life… when I spoke those first few words to you… your mind flashed into a hypothetical future, one in which I was already in and out of your life. You were already scared that I was going to abandon you.”

I was incredulous. Not even from the situation. I was hit by his accusations so hard it was almost like a slap to the face. I began to tremble from the mere force of what he had just said, and suddenly I couldn’t even sit up straight anymore. I hunched over in the chair, about ready to vomit from shock.

“And so,” he continued, pacing around until he was in front of me once more, “I need to know something.” He brandished the large knife in one hand, and in spite of myself I couldn’t help looking at it. “You trusted me once. You left your emotional comfort zone long enough to confide in me some very deep-seated and heavy shit. In short, you progressed. But I need to know just how far that trust goes.” He stepped forward a bit, bringing the hand that held the knife close to my neck. I flinched as the cold blade touched my skin. The whining started up again, and I heard it as though from far away. I was conscious enough to realize that it was only the dull of the blade, but I was scared shitless just the same. “Was that trust only skin deep?” he said, pressing the metal into me. “Or was it more than that?” He slid the blade gently across, and I shivered as my skin broke out into gooseflesh. “Could you trust me with a knife to your neck, Delilah?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered into the gag, not caring if it came out muffled. I closed my eyes against the tears that began streaming out. And yet I wasn’t crying because I was afraid of death. I was crying because I realized he was right. I really couldn’t trust anyone. I always felt threatened by everyone, treating them as though they had knives to my neck. I was constantly afraid, never wanting to let anyone past my self-protective barrier. I didn’t know why, but I suddenly felt ashamed.

“Tell me what you’re thinking of, Delilah,” he said, and I could feel the cool of the blade beside my cheek as he cut away the gag.

I couldn’t answer for a long while. I continued sobbing, unsure of anything anymore. My heart felt ready to break. I felt so betrayed by this man. It wasn’t the knife he was pressing against me; it was the truth of what he was saying. I hated him for being right.

When I had finally calmed down enough to talk, I said, “It’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?” he said, his voice soothing me in spite of everything.

“You’re fucking everything up,” I said, taking a deep breath and releasing it. “The way you’re saying all this.”

“Why?” he said, lifting an eyebrow. “Because it’s true?”

I couldn’t respond. I could only lower my head in shame.

He stood silently for a moment, his arms crossed over his chest. Finally he said, “What spot are you most self-conscious of?”

“What?” I said, lifting my head enough to look at him.

“What part of your body do you hate most?”

“I- I don’t understand,” I stammered.

“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice suddenly harsh.

Tears began streaming down my cheeks once more. “Please, don’t do this,” I begged, barely above a whisper.

Hector leaned forward so that his face was close to mine once more. “Do you trust me, or not?”

I thought about it for a moment, not sure how to answer. I wasn’t even sure if he was going to kill me or not. Through the fog in my brain, I felt myself nod.

“Then tell me.”

I took another deep breath and said, “My… my stomach. I hate my stomach.”

He nodded, rubbing his chin. Then in an instant he struck out with the knife.



They say that when you face death, your life flashes before your eyes, faster than the speed of light. I suppose that only happens to people who have had an interesting life. Instead, I just blanked out, my eyes squeezing shut so tightly I could see spots. I braced myself for the agony of having a knife stuck into my gut.

Instead I heard a loud tearing sound. I opened my eyes to find Hector kneeling down, slicing open my blouse and skirt. It was a fate worse than death. My stomach -- a bulging, flabby mess -- was exposed. To another person, no less. My therapist. My therapist had just cut my clothes open with a fucking knife.

“Fuck!” I yelled, getting over everything else that had just taken place. This was serious. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” he said, standing up once more. “Look at you. This is how much you hate yourself. You’re not outraged that I’ve violated you, or that there is a remote possibility I could rape or kill you. You’re angry that I’m seeing you as you truly are.”

“Ugly,” I growled.

“Human,” he countered with a sharp finality that literally made me close my mouth.

I swallowed and looked down, defeated again by the truth. That seemed to happen a lot when it came to Hector. “Just kill me,” I murmured.

“You think I’d let you get off that easily?” he said, tucking the blade into the holster in his pocket. “What a cop-out.”

“Fuck you,” I said weakly. “Either you can do it or I will.”

“No you won’t,” he said.

“Why not?” I said. It was not a challenge. I really wanted to know.

“Because when you have been this close to death… an unforeseen death… it is then that you can truly begin to appreciate life.”

“How would you know?” I shot at him.

“This,” he said, putting his wrist under my nose. I could see a mark. Actually, it was a huge, raised scar, spanning the width of his wrist.

I looked up at him, confused. “But, what is--”

“My mother was on drugs most of my childhood,” he said, his voice grave and monotonous. “She was overwhelmed and fucked up on smack. One day she decided she was better off without me. I was fortunate enough to have good neighbors.”

I stared up at him, my jaw dropped in astonishment. I didn’t want to believe it, but the intensity in his eyes showed me everything I needed to know. This man wasn’t lying. “I… I’m sorry.”

He let out a wry laugh. “Don’t be. Just do what I fucking tell you to do.”

My tears were cleared up. My fear was gone now. All I knew was that I didn’t know anything. He was right. I tried to clear my heart of pity, as deep down I knew it wasn’t for him but for myself. I felt like a selfish, spoiled brat. I silently thanked Hector with my eyes, for putting me in my place.

We stared at one another a moment longer before Hector knelt down and began untying my ankles from the chair legs. His fingers moved slowly but efficiently, gently working the knots apart. The tenderness nearly broke my heart. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t think I could. At last one of my legs was free, and he began to work on the other.

“I don’t think you realize just how… exquisite you are,” he murmured, so quietly I wasn’t sure he had even said it at all.

He looked up at me and I raised my eyebrow questioningly.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry to have frightened you.” My other leg was loose finally and I was glad to have the circulation back. He walked around to the back of the chair and I could feel his hands on the belt. He paused for a second, letting the contact linger, before starting to undo the bonds.

“You were right,” I said, and I could feel his hands stop again. “I really don’t trust anyone. You were completely right….” My voice trailed off.

“I’m getting paid for a reason,” he said, slipping the belt from around my wrists.

I didn’t move my arms right away. I wasn’t sure what I would do next. Hector came around to his desk and began putting the belt into the loops of his slacks. When he buckled it, he sat down in his chair, sighing. I let myself move my arms, feeling strange now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

Hector clasped his hands together on top of his desk, all business now that the action was over with. “Your next appointment is at six o’clock on Monday,” he said, as though nothing had just happened.

I didn’t respond at first, still a bit foggy and confused. “Oh, right… tomorrow’s Sunday,” I murmured.

“I hope you will use tomorrow as a day for reflection. I’m sure you have plenty to think about.”

I nodded, feeling blank.

“If you will excuse me for a moment, I must go to the restroom,” he said, standing up. “I’ll take you home as soon as I’m finished.”

I watched him leave the room. In spite of all that had happened, I already knew I would return on Sunday.