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Stolen -3- Fearful Dolly
🕑 Added 2020-07-08 15:48:28 +0000 UTC
“Say it,” Moose told me. “Tell me your name.”
“I-I’m….” I couldn’t say it. We were still in the back of the camper, lying on the bed with Moose’s big arm across my middle and his face in the back of my neck.
“When Earl asks, or anyone else, you have to not hesitate,” he warned. “What’s your name?”
“D-dolly,” I stammered.
“Again,” he said. “Full name,” he added.
“Dolly Griggs,” I said.
“Hmm,” he made an approving noise. “Griggs instead of Gregg?”
I blinked. “What did I say?”
“Dolly Griggs,” he repeated. “I like it. And if someone calls out Greg and you look up, it still won’t be too odd.” He pulled me against him again and kissed the back of my neck.
I shivered.
“You’re a smart girl,” he said. “Is Dolly short for something?”
I nodded. “Dorothy….” I suggested.
“Not Dolores?” he asked, then answered himself. “No. Dolores means ‘sorrow.’ Dorothy means ‘gift of God.’ That suits you better.” He chuckled. “Do you have a middle name?”
“I? I don’t know,” I whimpered.
“Work with me. I’m building a character for you to play. Like in a script. We have a girl, a young woman named Dorothy Griggs, called Dolly. What’s her middle name?”
“Marilou,” I said. My grandmother’s name, which I had always thought was a pretty name.
“Very good.” He gave me another squeeze. “That’s your name now.”
“I-I—.”
He whispered in my ear. “What’s your name?”
“Dolly,” I said.
He kissed the back of my neck again, and I nearly screamed. It came out as a moan.
“Sh, sh,” he said. “You’re afraid, but you don’t have to be afraid of me.”
I tried to cry quietly, hoping he wouldn’t know. But he did.
“It’s okay to cry,” he said. “Girls get to do that. And a girl in your situation would certainly be crying. So, it’s good. Go ahead and cry.”
I did. I wept with tears running down my cheeks and my nose filling up with snot.
He got up and fetched me a tissue from somewhere. It smelled of lotion, perhaps aloe. I wiped my face and blew my nose, and he took the tissue back to throw it away somewhere.
While he was up, he had closed the folding door that separated the tiny sleeping area from the front of the RV. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and took one of my hands in his. It made me feel tiny—his hands were so big.
“You’re safe,” he said simply.
I didn’t believe him, but I felt grateful for the lie.
*
We ended up spooning again, me on the inside next to the wall while Moose surrounded me. I lay there quivering, but he kept up a quiet talk, soothing by its ordinariness in a weird situation.
We traveled for hours on the interstate. From the traffic sounds, stops and starts, we must have gone through part of LA. From the afternoon light coming in the passenger-side windows, we mostly headed south. I didn’t drive, so I couldn’t get a better sense of where we were going. South was Orange County, San Diego, then—Mexico. If they had made a big score, stealing something, could they be headed out of the country?
The cabinet where Moose had stashed the two satchels he had been carrying was right over the foot of the bed. It had a lock on it now, which I hadn’t noticed before. I wanted to ask questions, but I didn’t.
Moose asked me lots of them. What did I like most about school, and dislike most? What foods did I prefer? What colors did I think look good on me? What movies had I seen? Who were my favorite stars? What my sizes were and what kind of clothes did I like to see girls wear? Those bothered me a bit.
But he also asked questions about music, art, books, games. Even comic books. Moose was a fan of Suicide Squad and the X-Men. I pointed out they were from different companies, lived in different universes. He shrugged. He said he liked the writing, the edginess, the thinking outside of usual comic book storylines. But he liked Batman and Spider-Man, too.
He made me smile when he commented that while Batman was probably a Democrat, Iron Man likely voted Republican. I wasn’t a political person, but I kind of had a clue what he meant. “You think Iron Man’s a crook?” I asked.
He laughed. “He’s a capitalist, so yeah, he’s probably a crook.”
Then he tickled me again, suddenly like before, by surprise after he had got me smiling by talking about silly stuff like comic books. He tickled hard, under my ribs, in my armpits, where my neck joins my shoulders, and places I didn’t know I was ticklish, like the back of my thighs.
I tried to protest, but all I could do was squeal with laughter. When I finally managed to say, “Stop…,” he did. Just as suddenly as he had begun, same as the first time, he stopped when I told him to. I felt like a captive, a prisoner, but he seemed to want to make me feel safe.
We had ended up lying face-to-face. He pulled me close, and before I had my breath back from the tickling, he kissed me right on the mouth.
Earl’s voice came from upfront, “Sounds like you two are having fun back there.” Then a laugh.
“Ignore him,” said Moose, kissing me again, pushing me backward onto the pillows. Amazingly, frighteningly, I realized that I had a hard-on. Did I like kissing this man?
“I’m n-not gay,” I said, denying that I felt anything.
“I’m not either,” he said. “For all the time we’re together, we both have to think of you as a girl.”
“B-b-but I’m not. I’m a boy.”
He motioned toward the front of the RV. “Earl will try to kill you if he thinks you’re not a girl. He hates queers and fags, and won’t trust you. I might have to kill him, and I don’t want to do that.” His knee was between my thighs, and he pressed it against my groin.
I gasped, distracted by the sensation. It was frightening but not entirely unpleasant. I still had a hard-on. “I’m n-not….”
He put a finger on my lips. “You’re a girl,” he whispered to me. “You’re my girlfriend if you want to live and not be murdered or witness a murder.” He rubbed the stubble of his chin against the side of my neck. I realized I was completely under him, but he held his weight off me with his elbows and knees.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“D-dolly?” I whispered.
“Dolly,” he agreed. “And who are you?”
“Huh?”
“You’re my girlfriend,” he said. “You’re Moose’s girlfriend.”
He was so there. I nodded, my cheek against his. It felt strange.
“Tell me your name and who you are,” he said.
I couldn’t at first. He repeated, speaking gently but with his mass and presence, making it a demand. “Tell me your name and who you are.”
“I-I’m Dolly. And…”
“You’re my girlfriend. Say it.”
“I’m your girl….”
I could feel him smiling, our faces touching. He began tickling me again, softly this time, just little strokes. I shivered all over, and I could feel myself smiling. “D-don’t,” I protested.
He stopped. “Say it, the whole thing,” he said.
“I’m Dolly,” I whispered. “And I’m your girlfriend.”
He kissed me. I felt things I didn’t have words for.
“Again,” he said. “Who are you?”
“I’m Dolly, and I’m your girlfriend,” I whispered again, not sure why I was doing so.
His knee still pressed against my groin. It almost felt as if he were inside me. “Say it three times, and we’ll both know it’s true.”
I took as deep a breath as I could manage, my heart pounding, a sound like heavy traffic filling my ears. “I’m Dolly, and I’m your girlfriend,” I whispered. Something about the world changed, and I shuddered with release.
Comments
Erin Halfelven at BigCloset
Yeah, Moose is ... yeah.
Michael Maor
Does Moose have training in psychological manipulation, or is it all natural talent? Very nice story, I hope someone kills Moose very soon, but I doubt it will be before he manages to throughly mess up the MC's head
