No Good Deed

James woke up with a groan, his head throbbing as if a tiny, malicious carpenter was trying to drill his way out from behind his eyes. The last thing he remembered, or was it a dream, was Nichola bringing him a drink. But the image was fractured, confused. Was it him she was giving the drink to, or was it a girl, a young lady with spiky hair and painted lips? He scratched his head, his fingers tangling in his own, unwaxed hair, and turned over.

"Hello, sleepy."

It was Nichola. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling at him, her expression one of genuine, tender affection. "Did you sleep well, my love?"

"Yes," he managed to say, his voice hoarse. He was so confused.

"Me too," she sighed, a blissful, contented sound. "Last night was wonderful, thank you. If we don't have a baby after that, then I guess we'll have to keep trying."

She leaned in and kissed him, a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of mint and something else, something sweet and cloying. Her hand slid down under the duvet and cupped his crotch. He was naked. And free. The cage was gone.

"Who knew this teeny weeny little feller had so much go in him," she whispered, her lips brushing against his ear.

It was a compliment, he thought. A strange, backhanded compliment, but from her, it felt like the highest praise. She jumped out of bed, her movements energetic and vibrant, and walked around a room he didn't recognize. It was a different room. Larger, with windows that looked out onto a grey, overcast sky. He heard the sound of a shower starting from an en-suite bathroom. He pulled himself up, his muscles aching, and instantly felt around his neck. The thick, heavy chain with the padlock was gone. In its place was a thin, delicate chain, from which a small St. Christopher medal hung. A memory, sharp and painful, stabbed through the fog in his mind: a thick chain, a padlock, a cold, hard floor. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the image.

He sat up, his legs hanging over the side of the bed. On the floor was a pile of clothes. They were familiar. A black spandex minidress, black nylon stockings, a lacy garter belt, and a pair of terrifyingly high, red-heeled shoes.

Nichola came back into the bedroom, vigorously drying her hair with a towel. She was dressed in a sheer black robe that did little to hide the curves of her body. He looked up at her, and a sudden, powerful urge washed over him. He wanted to get on his knees. It was almost a need, a biological imperative to lower himself before her.

A faint voice in the back of his head warned him, a quiet, logical tone that was running numbers, trying to solve a problem. Data mismatch. Location change. Status change. Inconsistent variables. But then another face appeared in his mind's eye, brighter, bolder. Lipstick, black eye make-up, spiked hair. He couldn't place the face, but it was trying to shoo the quiet voice away. Shush. Don't think. Feel.

Nichola bent down to pick up the pile of clothes from the floor, a deliberate, planned move. She tossed them onto the bed beside him, a trigger. She held on to the black panties, holding them up in front of him like a trophy.

An instinct, deep and primal, kicked in. He moved forward, his body acting on its own, and put his nose to the soft, worn fabric. She smiled, a triumphant, predatory glint in her eyes. That's it, boy, she thought to herself. Come to momma.

She moved them away, and a wave of sharp, unexpected disappointment crashed over him. He looked at her, his eyes wide, as if to ask why. She moved them back, and he moved forward again, a moth drawn to a deadly, beautiful flame.

She leaned forward, her lips brushing against his ear. "Kneel, baby, kneel," she whispered. "You'll feel so good."

And he knelt. And she was right. It felt good. It felt right. The throbbing in his head subsided, replaced by a warm, pleasant hum. She rewarded him by rubbing the dirty crotch of the panties in his face, the scent a heady, intoxicating mix of her perfume and her body. She felt a thrill of excitement course through her. Calm yourself, she thought. He's nearly there. Be patient.

But the quiet voice was getting louder. Trap. Manipulation. Positive reinforcement loop. Disengage. The painted face in his mind was trying to shush it, but the programmer was persistent.

Nichola pushed forward, putting her bare foot in front of his face. He bent down without hesitation and kissed it. "Good boy," she said. That simple phrase made him feel warm, cherished, and whole. He kissed her other foot. She walked away, and he followed on his knees, the carpet burning his skin. It was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

James's head was buzzing. The quiet voice was warning him, the painted face was telling the voice to shush. He wanted silence. He needed the noise to stop.

Nichola sat on a plush armchair and patted her knee. James crawled over and rested his head on her lap, sighing as she began to stroke his hair. "Did you give it any more thought, my love?" she asked, her voice soft and melodic.

He looked up at her, his expression blank. "What we talked about," she prompted. "Now that we're married, I was going to ease your burdens."

Married. The word echoed in the cavern of his confusion. Yes, yes, they were married. That's right. He remembered now. A beautiful ceremony. He should please her. That's what a good husband should do. And she wanted to ease his burdens. She loved him. This beautiful lady loved him.

She produced a digital pad and a stylus from a small table beside the chair. She smiled, stroking his face. "Just sign this for me, my love, and things will feel so much easier."

He looked at the pad, at the lines of text. But the voice in his head was insistent, screaming now. No! No! No! Trap door! Trojan Horse! Polymorphic code! The voice spewed out words he recognized, words that meant danger, corruption, a system breach.

He blinked. He pulled back. This wasn't right. Not right at all. He didn't know why; he didn't have the data, but every instinct he possessed was screaming at him. He fell back from her, scrambling away on his hands and feet like a crab, until his back hit the wall. He huddled there, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his eyes wide with terror.

Nichola simply stood, a flicker of a smile in her eyes, then turned and walked out the door, closing it softly behind her. She looked down at the pad in her hand, at the signature line. The triumphant smile turned to anger. Scrawled across the line in James's handwriting, in a shaky, desperate scrawl, were two words: "Fuck You."

With a roar of pure, unadulterated fury, she threw the pad against the wall, the screen cracking on impact.