The Shadow in the Dark Chapter Twenty Nine

 

The door to the motel room shut behind us with a soft, hollow click that seemed louder than it should have been. The sound lingered in the air, settling into the corners of the room along with the faint smell of old detergent and something vaguely medicinal. A single lamp buzzed quietly near the window, casting a yellowish light over the furniture.

 

I took a few steps in, then stopped.

 

There was only one bed.

 

It sat in the centre of the room like the proverbial ‘elephant in the room’  - double-sized, neatly made, the patterned bedspread pulled tight and smooth. Two pillows. One lamp on each side. No couch. No armchair. No escape.

 

“Oh,” I said, far too brightly. “Well. it’s a… bed.”

 

Martin set his overnight bag down near the door and glanced around, nodding as if everything were exactly as expected. “Looks clean enough,” he said. “Which is more than I was hoping for, honestly.”

 

There’s only one bed, Martin, I thought to myself. I didn’t look directly at the bed now. Let him say something. Let him comprehend the problem.

 

Just… the one… bed.

 

I laughed, a short, nervous sound, and moved toward the window instead of the bed. Outside, Dunwich lay quiet and fog-wrapped, the streetlamps glowing dimly through the mist. The silence pressed in, thick and watchful. I couldn’t see anyone on the street. “They didn’t have any other rooms?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

 

“Hmm, what?” Martin seemed engrossed in testing each of the taps in the en-suite bathroom. “Just the one room, apparently. Strange, really. I didn’t get the impression they had many other guests.” Martin said. “Town’s pretty empty, but I guess options are limited.”

 

I nodded, still staring out the window. “Of course they are.” I watched, curiously, as he then tested the water pressure of the shower.

 

“Do you do that in all the hotel rooms you stay in?” I asked.

 

“Doesn’t everyone?” said Martin.  We drifted into talking about nothing. Truly nothing. The quality of the towels. Whether the heater worked. The strange angle of the ceiling. The faint rattle in the pipes when Martin turned on the bathroom tap. He commented on how quiet it was. I said that was probably a good thing. He asked if I was hungry. I said no, then immediately wondered if I was lying.

 

All the while, the bed sat behind us, enormous in its silence.

 

The bed was patient, it seemed. It knew I couldn’t ignore it forever. 

 

Eventually, there was nothing left to say about the room.

 

Martin cleared his throat. “So,” he said gently, “about the bed.”

 

I turned to face him. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The lamplight softened his features, made him look almost unreal - calm, solid, unthreatening. The opposite of the chaos in my chest.

 

“I can sleep on the floor,” he said immediately. “Really. I don’t mind.”

 

I blinked. “You can’t do that.”

 

“I’ve slept in worse places,” he said with a small smile. “Trust me.”

 

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, heat creeping into my cheeks. “You’ll be miserable.”

 

“I’ll survive.”

 

I folded my arms, suddenly aware of how close we were standing. “I don’t want you to have a sleepless night on a hard floor.”

 

He hesitated, but smiled encouragement. “Ashlee, I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

 

“I don’t,” I said too quickly. Then, softer, “I mean, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable either.”

 

We stood there, looking at each other, the unspoken thing finally too large to ignore.

 

I laughed then - an awkward, self-conscious sound that escaped before I could stop it. “This is absurd,” I said. “We’ve been dating for three months and I feel like a teenager at prom.”

 

Martin smiled, relieved by the laughter. “I was thinking the same thing.”

 

He stepped closer, slowly, giving me time to pull away if I wanted to. I didn’t. My heart was racing now, my thoughts tangled and contradictory. I felt close to him - safe, even. He’d been there when everything else felt like it was unravelling. He felt like a gallant knight out of some story I’d half-believed in as a child.

 

And yet, beneath that warmth was fear. A deep, visceral fear that made my stomach knot.

 

I had never done this before. Never crossed that threshold. The idea of it, of being penetrated, of surrendering that final, private boundary, filled me with a strange mix of longing and terror. I wanted closeness. I wanted intimacy. Of course I did. But I was terrified of what it would mean once it was no longer theoretical.

 

Martin leaned in and kissed me softly.

 

It was gentle. Careful. His hand rested lightly at my waist, as if even that might be too much. I kissed him back, my body responding before my thoughts could catch up, a warmth blooming low in my chest. For a moment, the world narrowed to the quiet room, the soft light, the steady presence of him.

 

And the silent double bed.

 

Then the fear surged again, sharp and cold.

 

He felt it. I knew he did, because he pulled back just slightly, resting his forehead against mine.

 

“We don’t have to do anything,” he said quietly. “Anything at all. I’m not going to pressure you.”

 

Relief washed through me so strongly it almost made me dizzy. Safety. Control. Space.

 

And – confusingly - something else too: a small, irrational flicker of frustration. A part of me that wanted him to be more insistent, more certain, to take the decision out of my hands. The thought alarmed me, and I pushed it away immediately, ashamed of it. “I know,” I said. “Thank you.”

 

--------------------------------

 

The room was quiet in that particular way that only comes after the lights have been turned off - thick, expectant, filled with the faint sounds of breathing and the distant hush of the town outside. I lay on my side, staring into the darkness, aware of Martin’s presence beside me without touching him. The bed felt warmer now, shared, the space between us charged with things neither of us had said.

 

I wore my panties, still. They were a ridiculously flimsy barrier between me and explicit intimacy. 

 

I had untied the bow of my white Purity Ribbon, which now hung over the door knob. My hair was loose and unfettered. Without the Purity Ribbon, I seemed to be more available. 

 

I didn’t plan it. That was what startled me most afterward.

 

I turned toward him, slowly, in the bed, as if afraid the movement itself might shatter something fragile. He was on his back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. When he noticed me, his expression softened in that familiar way - gentle, open, patient. “Martin,” I whispered.

 

He turned his head toward me. “Yeah?”

 

Instead of answering, I leaned in and kissed him.

 

It was tentative at first, just a brush of lips, but he responded immediately, carefully, as though checking for permission even as he returned it. I kissed him again, more firmly this time, and felt something loosen in my chest. The fear receded, just a little, replaced by warmth and closeness and the comforting sense of being wanted. He shifted toward me, one arm sliding around my shoulders, pulling me closer. Our bodies aligned more fully now, the bed creaking softly beneath us. His hand rested at my back, warm and steady, and I felt myself relax into him, my earlier tension dissolving.

 

This felt right. It felt safe.

 

It was Martin. 

 

His kisses deepened, still gentle, still respectful, and I let myself enjoy the sensation - the closeness, the shared breath, the quiet intimacy of it. When his hand moved slightly, caressing rather than claiming, I didn’t pull away. I felt present in my body in a way I rarely did, grounded and connected, no longer trapped in spirals of fear and doubt.

 

For a few moments, the world narrowed to just us.

 

And then, something shifted.

 

I couldn’t have said what it was. There was no clear thought, no sudden memory, no obvious trigger. Just a tightening, sharp and sudden, deep in my chest. My heart began to race again, too fast, too loud. The warmth that had steadied me moments before turned dizzying, overwhelming.

 

I pulled back abruptly, breaking the kiss.

 

Martin froze, confusion flickering across his face. “Ashlee?”

 

“I - I’m sorry,” I said quickly, sitting up, drawing my knees toward my chest. “I don’t know what just happened.”

 

He propped himself up on one elbow, watching me carefully now. “Did I do something?”

 

“No,” I said immediately. “No, you didn’t. It’s not you.”

 

But I could see the disappointment anyway, the way his shoulders stiffened just slightly, the way his mouth tightened before he smoothed his expression again. He was trying to be patient. Trying not to take it personally.

 

“You were fine a second ago,” he said, not accusingly, but with clear frustration beneath the calm. “You were the one who started it.”

 

“I know,” I said, rubbing my arms as if I were cold. “I just… it happens sometimes. I feel close and then suddenly I don’t. I don’t understand it either.”

 

He sighed quietly, running a hand through his hair. “It’s hard, Ashlee. I want to be close to you, but it feels like I’m constantly guessing which version of you I’m with. The one who wants me, or the one who’s afraid of me.”

 

I flinched at that, though I knew he hadn’t meant to hurt me.

 

“I’m not afraid of you,” I said. “I’m afraid of… crossing something I can’t uncross.”

 

He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. “I can respect that. But it’s confusing. And yeah, frustrating.”

 

“I know,” I said softly. “I’m sorry. Just give me a moment.” I understood the moment as something fragile, not something to be rushed.

 

The motel room was quiet ever since Martin had switched off the light, the darkness settling around us like a held breath. The double bed creaked softly each time one of us shifted position. We had initially lain down side by side, careful at first, leaving a polite distance between our bodies as if the space itself mattered. I lay on my back, my underwear still in place, my hands folded tensely at my stomach.

 

My heart was pounding far too loudly.

 

“Are you okay?” Martin asked softly in the dark.

 

“Yes,” I said, though the word came out thinner than I meant it to. I turned onto my side, facing him again, trying to steady my breathing. I could feel the warmth of him through the mattress, the quiet certainty of his presence. It helped. More than I wanted to admit.

 

He didn’t touch me at first. That restraint mattered. It gave me room to remain where I was without feeling cornered, without feeling that something was expected of me simply because we were sharing a bed.

 

After a while, I reached out on my own, my fingers brushing his arm beneath the sheet. The contact sent a small jolt through me - fear and comfort tangled together - but I didn’t pull back.

 

Martin shifted closer, slowly, giving me time. When he kissed me again, it was gentle, tentative, as if he were still asking permission even now. I kissed him back, surprised by how natural it felt once I did. The nervousness didn’t vanish all at once, but it loosened, inch by inch, replaced by warmth and a growing sense of closeness. We kissed quietly beneath the covers, the world reduced to breath and touch and the shared rhythm of something unspoken. His hand rested at my back, steady and reassuring, never demanding. I found myself relaxing into him, my body responding before my thoughts could catch up. The fear that had followed me for so long, through the woods, through the dark roads, through Dunwich itself, began to recede. Not disappear, but soften, like something held at bay.

 

Time blurred. The room, the motel, the town outside all faded into irrelevance as we stayed wrapped together, moving carefully, guided more by trust than urgency. What mattered wasn’t the act itself so much as the sense of being held, of being wanted without being pushed, of choosing rather than being carried along by fear.

 

Eventually, the kisses slowed. We remained close, breathing together in the dark, the sheets tangled around us.

 

For the first time since everything had begun to unravel, I felt something like safety—not certainty, not answers, but warmth. And for that moment, it was enough. 

 

“Ashlee…” Martin’s voice broke the silence between kisses. “No pressure, but I’m as hard as a flag pole right now.”

 

I laughed softly and squirmed closer to his body. “Is that me?”

 

“Of course it’s you, you maddening vixen. I’m practically delirious for you.” I felt his hand brush one of my nipples and it felt wonderful. 

 

“This is a big step,” I whispered.

 

“The biggest,” agreed Martin. His hand caressed my breasts again and I suddenly felt light headed with desire. 

 

“I had a boyfriend once who told me, quite seriously, that it is incredibly cruel to keep a man unsatisfied when he is… hard like that.”

 

“A very wise boyfriend,” whispered Martin. “There are all manner of serious health issues with being denied by a maddeningly beautiful redhead.”

 

I laughed softly. “Oh. So the power is all mine tonight?”

 

A thought flashed through my mind – I don’t want to have any power.

 

“I’m likely to be uncomfortable all night if you don’t offer me some small kindness, Ashlee, even if it’s just your hand.”

 

“You only want my hand?” I whispered in the darkness.

 

“God, no, I want all of you, Ashlee. Every maddening piece of you.”

 

“Okay.”

Just a single word, but it seemed to change everything. 

 

Martin moved his hand and parted my legs under the sheets. I felt a tension in my chest as I felt him move and slide into position beside me. Was I really going to do this? Was I really going to open myself to a man? 

 

“Relax, Ashlee. You’re going to enjoy this. I’m going to take things slowly. It won’t hurt. I know what I’m doing. It’s going to be okay. And then we’ll be closer. You’ll only feel scared the once.” And then, slowly, kissing me as he moved, he peeled my panties down past my hips, past my thighs, past my knees and finally slipped them past my ankles. With a flick of his wrist he discarded them onto the bedroom floor. I breathed in deeply as I felt the lack of any shield between my legs. 

 

He didn’t understand! I was a virgin! I was intact! That meant something. I felt suddenly terrified, and, sensing that, Martin began to stroke my hair and kiss me softly on the lips. This was all right. This I could cope with. This was tender, and respectful. I moved my thighs back together, and he sensed the movement.

 

“Ashlee? Really, it’s going to be okay.”

 

I refused to open my thighs. Let him open them if he wanted them open!

 

I felt him touch my leg and I felt him once again gently, without too much force, prise my thighs apart.

 

I moaned softly. 

 

“See, you want this, don’t you?”

 

The thought entered my head – only a slut would want this. Only a slut.

 

“Martin…” I was trembling. I was open! My thighs were parted! I felt him shift his weight again under the sheets. 

 

“I’m going to touch you, now, Ashlee. Between your legs. Just to see if you are ready for me.”

 

How can I be! How can I be ready! What does that even mean!

 

His fingers moved along my leg. “Don’t touch my left thigh!” I said in panic. “Not there! Please, not there!”

 

“Okay…” Martin seemed surprised, and a little disappointed. “What’s wrong?”

 

“I just don’t like being touched there.” I shivered, imagining what it might be like if he actually touched the softness of my left thigh. No! No man must ever touch me there! Didn’t he understand the significance?

 

I felt his fingers touch me lightly between my thighs and it was like an electric thrill shot through my body. I moaned softly and trembled with a delicious sensation that felt exhilarating. 

 

“Well, I think you’re ready for me,” Martin said with a smile. 

 

“You can tell just by touching me there?”

 

“Oh yes.” He kissed me for reassurance. My lips tingled and I felt a sudden desire to be opened and penetrated. But then came the second wave of feelings, that I must fight against that need. “And I’m ready, too, Ashlee. You can feel me if you like. Feel how hard you’re making me. Go on, touch me.”

 

I gasped but I moved my hand under the sheets and felt the shaft of his penis. My God, I never realised a man could feel so hard. Was that me? Was that because of me?

 

I blushed. “You seem to be…”

 

“Very excited, yes, Ashlee. Shall we?”

 

I trembled. This was going to happen. But why was he asking permission? Why didn’t he just have me? It felt frustrating.

 

“If I say no?”

 

“Then we’ll stop, of course.”

I squirmed in frustration. He wanted me to drive this. To keep signalling acceptance. I hated that.

 

Couldn’t he read my body?

 

A wild though flashed through my mind – a real man would tie my wrists to the headboard with binding fibre and take me. I would respond well to that.

 

No! No, I wouldn’t! I wouldn’t!

 

“Okay, Ashlee, I’m going to enter you now.”

 

Stop talking!

 

I felt the head of his penis touch me, press firmly against my sex. I felt myself slide, wet, against that stiff thing as it pushed past my labia, and, oh God, it felt good! I was being opened! He was so hard, and I was soft, wet, vulnerable. He could have me.

 

I felt him slide a little deeper, taking his time. There would be resistance. He would feel resistance. I was virgin. I was untouched. My God, this felt so good! I crossed my wrists above my head. Surely he must see this? Surely he must be turned on by my crossed wrists? Surely the motion must speak to him? How could a man not respond to a woman crossing her wrists before him? 

 

It is submission. It is complete submission to a man.

 

Take my wrists, I thought to myself, as I felt the head of his penis settle inside me. Master me. Master me. You are a man! I’m a woman! Do you not understand what to do?

 

Bind me! Make me helpless!

 

“You’re so beautiful, Ashlee.” He didn’t move any deeper. He kissed me, and he reassured me.

 

And then came the pressure. The point of no return. 

 

“NO!” I screamed, without warning. “NO! You can’t do this! I don’t want it! NO!”

 

He withdrew immediately. I lay there, breathing heavily. 

 

“For fuck’s sake, Ashlee. What is it?”

 

“I’m a virgin,” I sobbed, turning and pressing my head into the pillow. “You can’t. You mustn’t! I’m a virgin.”