Rhoda's Pet

That day rewired my very soul. My parents were overjoyed by the transformation; they saw a diligent son where they had once seen a delinquent. I became an example of respectability. I sat down with my schoolwork and finished it. I looked people in the eye and spoke politely. But it wasn't really me. It was the spell keeping me in line.

I couldn't sleep until I recited the curse twenty times. "I love and must obey Rhoda." Saying it brought a strange, hollow calm to my mind. It was a drug that numbed the noise of my own thoughts.

Then came the dreams. They were vivid and tormenting. I always found myself back in the caravan or the dusty yard, chasing the beautiful girl with the black eyes. I would masturbate furiously in my sleep, desperate for release. But the moment I climaxed, the dream shifted. The beautiful girl dissolved into Rhoda, the fat, chubby girl sitting behind the caravan. Her face would be distorted into a grin.

As the years blurred together, Rhoda in my dreams aged right along with me. I left school early, entered the family business, and excelled. I studied, worked, and took the exams. By the age of twenty, I was running five of my father's estate agent offices. I was a decent, hardworking man, capable of closing deals and commanding any room.

And yet, I felt empty. Over the years, random moments would take hold of me. I might be in a meeting or walking down the street, and I’d catch a glimpse of a chubby girl—maybe in a reflection on a shop window or standing in the shadows of a doorway. When our eyes met, my cock would instantly harden. It was an itch I couldn't scratch, a phantom limb of desire.

I had relationships, but they always ended. There was always something missing, a void that no one else could fill.

Then, a month before my twenty-first birthday, the restlessness took over. It started as a nervous twitch in my fingers, then turned into a physical shake. I couldn't concentrate on the paperwork at work. I decided to take the week before my birthday off. A crossroads was approaching in my life, and I had no idea what it was. I had no clear memory of that night in the caravan, except for the chant, but I sensed my confusion was somehow connected to that night. 

I’ve always been tethered to Rochester, anchored by the pull of its history. The castle, in particular, has always drawn me in, a star in the sky of my mind. So when that flat on Castle Hill went up for sale, I didn't hesitate. I didn't care that it was overpriced. It was a two-bedroom box with a view costing more than my first car. I had to have it.

I moved in a month after my twentieth birthday. The flat became my sanctuary, but also my gilded cage. As my twenty-first birthday approached, I realized that the only place I could find peace was sitting in that bay window, gazing out at the castle grounds.

That was where I woke up on the morning of my birthday. The light was cold and gray, filtering through the curtains. I looked at my watch—7:30 AM. The grounds opened at 8:00 AM. I needed to be there. I had to be ready.

I didn't think about cake. I didn't think about friends or family. I didn't even consciously register that it was my birthday. It was just a day marked on the calendar of my mind, a deadline. I scrambled out of bed, my heart pounding against my ribs, and headed for the shower. I scrubbed my skin until it was red, shaving every bit of stubble, obsessively perfecting my appearance. I was preparing for a ritual, and I didn't even know the name of the god I was worshipping.

The day on the castle grounds started with coffee and a bacon sandwich from the Castle Kiosk, a snack bar tucked away in the shadows of Rochester Castle. I checked my phone, ignoring the swarm of birthday wishes buzzing silently in my pocket. By one o'clock, the rain came down in sheets; the castle grounds offered little shelter. I bought a ticket and slipped inside the castle itself. It was a ruin, an empty shell held together by ancient stone and man-made bridges, yet it provided a refuge from the storm. Amidst its crumbling nooks, I watched the rain fall, taking in the panoramic views of the surrounding areas, the outside world looking cold, gray, and very much alone.

By three o'clock, the rain had let up, leaving the castle grounds slick and grey. I stood on the ramparts, staring toward the keep, and saw her. A short, round woman walked up the steps from the esplanade, standing beside the cannon that guarded the bridge. This was it. This was why I was here. I didn't know how I knew, but I knew instinctively.

I abandoned the safety of the castle and jogged along the gravel path toward her. As I drew closer, distant alarm bells were ringing in the back of my mind, warning me to stop, to walk away before it was too late. But a stronger, more powerful voice commanded me to continue. It was an iron will that overrode my own.

She was a force of nature in leather. She had tight, black, curly hair and a pretty face masked by too much heavy makeup. Under a fur-lined leather jacket, a frilly white blouse strained against the zipper, struggling to contain large breasts. She wore leather trousers that looked like she might burst out of them at any moment, paired with little pixie boots and leather gloves. One hand held the umbrella, the other a cigarette.

I stood before her, taking deep breaths to calm my inner turmoil. My cock was hard and throbbing against my trousers. I gazed into her almond-black eyes and felt the spell tighten its hold. I dropped to my knees without hesitation.

“Please, Miss Rhoda, will you marry me?”