I wake up with the smell of coffee. To remain clinging to past memories of the dream I curl up under the sheets and I turn away. Nothing
, the images disappear like fog up under the sun.
Not bad, though. Soon will come, as every morning with my breakfast on a metal tray, with printed on the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe and the Louvre Pyramid.
For six months I have this sweet hello, the fact of his smile, a cup of coffee, yogurt and freshly baked croissants, crispy, stuffed with neither too cold nor too hot. I love it.
Sometimes I like to watch it with closed eyes, pretending to sleep again. He is thoughtful, enters on tiptoe, looking at me, and equip the table in silence. His gestures are simple and clear: spread a small cloth, and supports the tray, gently so as not to wake up. Then he goes, quietly, as he arrived.
Today, however, I find myself already up, meet him, keep those games looks and smiles. Every occasion is an excuse to touch it and caress it. I want to breathe the scent of aftershave, mixed with the smell of the first cigarette that wears; approach on tiptoe and kissed him on the neck, pass the hands on hips and chest.
fault of the dream. I left on the skin of his desire.
was night, the door was open and a moment later the sheet was removed at the bottom of the foot. I, lying on his stomach, I was awakened to hear the mattress sink under its weight. I raised my head and we had looked at. He smiled with his index finger resting on the lips. We were so, finding pleasure in waiting. Then I had toyed with, had left the calf, and had risen following the leg muscles. Rather than continuing on my butt, took the long way, from the side. I had rice for tickling, but I did not move. I like to feel his hands on me as I stroked her back, shoulders, neck. Then he replaced his hands with his lips. With little kisses had left, redoing all the way round. When he arrived below the buttocks, I felt a shudder and close the sheet with her hands, closing his eyes. I can not resist. I wanted his kisses, feel above me, heavy and light at the same time. I wanted to undress and be stripped, feel the touch of my skin on her, lost in his grief and my shortness of breath.
Instead, I smelled the coffee and I woke up.
Now I'm standing at the door. I have his shirt on him that gave me as pajamas. That sounds great, and I rolled the bottom like a miniskirt. He likes to look at her legs.
And to think that he knows only the name and profession. François. Together with his accomplices kidnapped me one night, sneak in the house where I live with my parents. Since then locked myself in this room, but I'm not complaining. At first I was scared, but over time I realized that it does not require much in the morning to get me a good morning. It's my small daily pleasure, now I can not do without. I see him for a few minutes and try many times to prolong these moments, I talk to him, tell him about me, I try to know him. François is kind and in the few minutes it makes me feel safe and secure. I'm not missing anything. Brings me his books and his CDs to listen to, so I can know him a little 'more.
I know they have demanded a ransom, but I hope that is not paid. If being released means you no longer see, I prefer to stay here forever.
I do not care what others think. My dad says I'm crazy, my mother will replace the words with tears, someone called the Stockholm Syndrome.
I like to think that is love.
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