Comfort Food by Kitty Thomas
Emily Vargas has been taken captive. As part of his conditioning methods, her captor refuses to speak to her, knowing how much she craves human contact. He's far too beautiful to be a monster. Combined with his lack of violence toward her, this has her walking a fine line at the edge of sanity.
Told in the first person from Emily's perspective, Comfort Food explores what happens when all expectations of pleasure and pain are turned upside down, as whips become comfort and chicken soup becomes punishment.
DISCLAIMER: This is not a story about consensual BDSM. This is a story about “actual” slavery. If reading an erotic story without safewords makes you uncomfortable, this is not the book for you. This is a work of fiction, and the author does not endorse or condone any behavior done to another human being without their consent.
(property of Kitty Thomas)
He crumbled the crackers and lifted the spoon to my mouth. I’m not sure where my courage to speak came from. I was far past scared, but I was also angry, probably as much at myself for sitting and doing nothing as I was at him.
“I can feed myself!” As soon as I’d said it, I flinched. So much for bravery. I guess I expected him to hit me. Your average psychopath isn’t known for his restraint. I braced an arm over my face as if it would stop any blow he decided to deliver.
With slow wariness, I lowered my arm. He sat mildly waiting with the spoon in his hand. I looked for anger in his eyes, but all I saw was calm, and the slightest tinge of amusement. I amused him. That made me angry enough to stop being scared again.
I wanted to lash out, fight. At that moment I didn’t care if he killed me. I’d gotten it into my head that whatever he had in store for me would be worse the longer it took him to mete it out, and I saw no escape. If he killed me quickly, that would be better.
I was also more clear-headed than I’d been the day before. The drugs had worked their way for the most part through my system, and I wasn’t so hungry I’d do anything. I cringed as I remembered letting him touch me through my clothing just to eat. There would be more of that and much worse if I didn’t act now.
I slapped the spoon out of his hand and threw the bowl across the room. The glass shattered against the wall, breaking the silence. My mouth followed suit. “I don’t want fucking chicken noodle soup! I want you to let me go, asshole!”
I was sure that would do it. Someone as anal as he appeared to be would snap under the strain of my rebellion. I was adorably naive. He stood with the tray in one hand, picked up the spoon, and left the room.
That was when it occurred to me how unbelievably stupid I’d just been. Yes, he was anal, and yes my little outburst would likely make him angry. But the amount of restraint he’d shown so far made me realize it was unlikely he’d offer me a quick death no matter how many outbursts I displayed. He’d spent too much time on this plan.
He was only gone a few minutes, but during those few minutes, I ran through at least twenty possibilities of what he might do next. He might starve me was one option. I’d managed to get some bravery due to the fact that I’m not usually that hungry when I first wake up, but starving wasn’t something I wanted to do. I was reminded of this fact because I’d just the day before allowed him to fondle me once for each bite of soup.
He could kill me. A part of me wanted him to. It would be easier than living with what I would no doubt become if he kept to the same MO. He could have gone to get some dramatic implements of torture, or just the knife he’d used the day before to cut my bonds. I shivered at the last option and scooted back into the corner as if I could press myself through the wall to freedom on the other side. Maybe he would be quick about it.
The door creaked open again and my eyes shot up to meet his, terrified to see anger, but afraid not to know the status of my situation. He still had that calmness. He shook his head and grinned. If he hadn’t been a sociopath, he would have been appealing. He had one of those boyish lopsided grins that tried to inch a little way up his face and made him look safe. It didn’t fit with his eyes.
Instead of knives or guns or a million other nasty options, he had a broom, a mop, and a pail. He dragged a small trash can into the room behind him, and the door slammed shut again. I watched as he swept up the solid pieces of the soup and the glass from the bowl and dumped them into the trashcan. Then he mopped the floor, and without a word, took everything he’d brought into the room out again.
A few minutes passed before he returned to the cell; this time he wasn’t carrying anything. He strode too fast across the floor toward me, causing me to cower in the corner like a wounded animal. He stopped just short of reaching me and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked like a parent disappointed in a child, as if I had been petulant and not within my rights and the bounds of normal human behavior to react in the way I had.
His cold gaze compelled me to speak. “I’m sorry.” My voice trembled and sounded foreign to my ears.
Could this weak, helpless creature really be me? I’d spent the past five years giving speeches on empowerment and self-improvement and here I was, reduced to this. And so quickly.
I looked up at him, and he continued to regard me with something like interest. I could practically feel the violence curling within him, waiting like a viper to strike, but it never did. Instead, he stared at me as if he expected me to continue speaking. So I did.
“Please talk to me. Why won’t you speak to me? Are you going to hurt me? Are you going to kill me? Please . . . ”
He smiled. I don’t know why I asked why he wouldn’t speak. I knew why. It was becoming increasingly clear. I didn’t know exactly why me, but I had a good idea why he wasn’t talking.
He’d studied me, stalked me, knew everything about me. Human contact, speech, words, music. I needed stimulation. And he wasn’t giving any of it to me. I was pretty sure he was trying to break me, and considering my lack of escape options, I was pretty sure he was going to succeed.
People always think they’ll never break. They’ll never give in. CIA operatives somehow crack, but not them. We live in this world where everybody watches so much TV, it makes them think they’re superheroes. I’m strong, but anyone can be broken. I knew this. It’s only a matter of opportunity, will, and persistence.
What prevents it from happening most often is most people sociopathic enough to break and condition someone properly don’t have the level of self-control required to do it. Most with the control aren’t big enough sociopaths. This was why I feared this man so much, not because I was his prisoner, but because I saw in him the blending of these qualities, which made the possibilities of what could happen endless.
I can't believe this has been on my TBR shelf for as long as it has and I hadn't read it yet. What on earth took me so long? I have no idea but I am glad I finally dove in because I loved it!
Comfort food is about Emily Vargas who has been taken captive by a man that will only be known to her during her captivity as Master. This story was so very different from other Dark Romances that I have read because there is no actual Romance to this story this is Dark Erotica at its finest.
"Master" kidnaps Emily and turns her into his sexual slave but she is always given a choice, no not if she can leave but if she is a good girl she is rewarded and she isn't she's punished. You would think the choice would be easy but that's not always the case, and as this story progresses you ponder what choice you would make yourself.
There are a few books that have me looking at things differently after reading them and for COMFORT FOOD I will never look at a bowl of chicken soup the same again...heck I may never eat a bowl of it again.
I would recommend this book to readers that enjoy DARK EROTICA.
KITTY THOMAS is the author of the bestselling COMFORT FOOD, published in early 2010, it’s the Original Dark Romance book. She writes dark stories that play with power and have unconventional HEAs. She also writes some quirky and some dark paranormal romance.
ZOE WINTERS writes quirky paranormal romance and is Kitty’s alter ego. Zoe began publishing in late 2008 with a novella called KEPT. Books previously published under the Zoe name have been re-released and co-branded as: “by Kitty Thomas and Zoe Winters” to bring everything under the umbrella of the main author brand. All future work whether light or dark or a blend in between will be branded under the Kitty name. (you’ll know in the description and branding what you’re getting.)