It's only one plate.

He is perfect. He does have a bit of an ego, but I suppose that's what happens to a man who often has women falling over themselves to cater to his needs. Their way of satisfying the lust they feel in his presence. They work themselves into his favor and his bed. It's their mission to be made love to by an impossibly handsome and charming man. With so many women flocking around him, a guy is bound to develop an ego about himself.

I admit, I fell for him too. I fall for him and his ego takes a backseat. He is all those things. Handsome, charming, well-mannered, and well-educated. His hair is dark, almost black. His eyes a deep, piercing green. He is well-muscled; diligent about his workout routine. He is particular about his appearance, his car, his clothes...and his home as I am to find out.

Most of his ego, I can deal with because he is very kind to me...in the beginning. He is the type of man most women hope to marry. He stops by my office to take me to lunch. He opens the car door for me. He never hesitates to be romantic, or thoughtful. His name is Jason. And he is perfect.

Too fucking perfect.

After we married, he loses his kindness. His need for perfection extends to me and to our home. It's an impossible standard for anyone to maintain. Most important to him seems to be the kitchen. In order for me to keep up with the housework, I have to clean constantly. I have to maintain the perfection of the kitchen even while I prepare dinner. Every dish has to be cleaned and then put away. Immediately following dinner, those dishes have to be cleaned and put away. Jason refuses to tolerate dirty dishes in the sink.

Not even one single plate.

That fucking plate is why I'm looking in the bathroom mirror at a face I barely recognize. I don't see that lovesick woman I used to be. I wonder if I'm still a woman at all. If a woman is only touched with violent blows, can she still call herself a woman?

This is ridiculous. Why don't I just leave? If it weren't for this damned book, I would have. But, this is my story. My part in a fantasy. A twisted fantasy. What kind of man picks up this book and wants to play Jason's part?  I assume he's a weak-willed man whose desire is brutal control over his woman. The kind of man who could do these vicious acts and then simply close the book and walk away. Thankfully, only a small number of men have ever picked up this book and been eager to enact this particular fantasy within its pages. I don't know who they are. What they look like. In my eyes, they are Jason.

No matter the man, the events are always the same. 

When Jason comes home, he is in a foul mood. This isn't a good sign. Dinner is on time. Waiting for him. He goes into the kitchen for a drink. From upstairs I hear his voice.

"Grace!"

I feel a sudden hollowness in the pit of my stomach. I gather my bravery and step into the kitchen knowing full well that it will be a mistake to do so. He is standing at the sink, arms crossed, glaring at me impatiently. "What the hell is this!"

My chest starts to tremble as I near him. I look. There's a plate in the sink. "I'm sorry." I say pitifully. I reach for the plate, intending to wash it, hoping it will satisfy him and that will be the end of it. But, I know it won't.

His voice is a blur. Loud violent words said out of the irrational minefield that is his reality. My hand rests on the cold metal of the sink. I glance out of the window. My focus is on the dark rain clouds. I'm not listening to him. I'm waiting.

The realization that I am not paying attention to him is the reason for the blow that comes hard against my cheek. As hard and sudden as the thunder outside the window. Rain starts to pour against the glass, but I cannot see it. My vision is blurred. Another blow. Harder than the first. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth. He sets his finger under my chin, tipping it up so he can see the proof of his dominance over me. His thumb glides over my lip, picking up blood from the corner of my mouth. He lifts his thumb to his mouth and tastes it. I don't look at him, but I know he is smiling.

He grabs my arm. There'll be a bruise there later. I fight him as he drags me to the bedroom. My attempts are futile against his strength. My only reprieve is the knowledge of how long his assault will last. He leaves me. Exhausted. Hollow. Angry. I hear the front door close. Now is when I am supposed to shower and remove any evidence, from the house and myself, of the event. It helps him to forget exactly what kind of man he is. I stand under the hot water until it goes cold. It will be a few hours before he returns home with his rehearsed apology and an expensive token meant to purchase my forgiveness.

These are the events of the evening that will play each time a man chooses this fantasy. Fortunately, no one has chosen this fantasy in a very long time. However, since I have decided to play against the rules of the book, I have to endure it one last time. I need to draw someone into the book and into this fantasy. The next time I am forced upon, I will fight back and find my way out of the book.

When the book opens, the flutter of the pages rages across me like a strong wind. The book is in the hands of a man. I don't know what to do. There is no way for me to communicate with him. It's up to him to choose the fantasy. I can only wait.

I'm suddenly filled with exhilaration and fear. It's the familiar sensation I experience when the fantasy begins. I wait with all of the patience I am capable of. I wait for him to call my name.

"Grace!"

My part of the fantasy has already been altered. Instead of the fear and dread with which I usually enter the kitchen, I am also sensing an eagerness to begin. When I enter the kitchen, it is not Jason that I see. It is this man. The one who should have taken Jason's appearance when he assumed his part in this story. He has decided not to play entirely by the rules of the book. It's rare, but not unusual. It would make little difference to me except for the fact that...this man is washing the plate that I had left in the sink.

I cannot move or speak. I don't know how to progress from this point.

He turns when he senses my presence in the kitchen. His neatly trimmed hair is a shade of auburn. His eyes are a bit heavy-lidded, giving them a smoldering appearance. His body is fit and broad shouldered. His handsome face bears a clean shave. Surely he cannot be the kind of man who would willingly tolerate this type of sexual fantasy.

He smiles at me. "Is dinner ready, luv? I'm starved."

My shock keeps me silent. He approaches me and I am unsure whether or not to be afraid. He leans down to kiss me. To my surprise, I allow him to. The kiss is gentle and tender. His mouth teases mine. The scent of him fills the air around me as his tongue seeks mine. The hand that should, at this moment, be engaged in striking its first blow, is now caressing my cheek. He breaks the kiss and pulls away slowly. His hand rests under my chin as he gazes at me. He laughs softly. Apparently he is amused by my inability to speak. Is this his intention? To play with me the way a cat plays with a mouse before killing and devouring it?

I remain guarded throughout our meal together. Odd that I've never known before how the food tasted. By this point in the story, I am on the floor waiting to be dragged to the bedroom. The food is good. The conversation is pleasant, almost cheerful. He is recounting the events of his day. Surprisingly, he asks me about the events of my day as well. More surprising to me, is my participation in the conversation. After dinner is finished, he compliments me on the meal.

I want to relax, but I'm afraid to enjoy his company. I get up and begin to clear the dishes away from the table. 

"Don't worry about that right now, sweetheart. I'll help you with that later. I brought something for you."

I stare at him wide-eyed. He laughs softly and then gets up from his chair. He takes the plate from my hand and puts it back on the table. Taking my hand, he leads me upstairs to the bedroom. I'm barely able to climb the stairs for the shaking in my legs. I'm still weary of an attack. I sit at the foot of the bed and watch him retrieve something from his pocket. It's a small velvet box. He kneels, positioning himself between my legs. When he opens the box, there's a ring inside. Small chips of diamonds encrusted on bands of gold that wrap around a teardrop-shaped opal.

"Do you like it?" He asks in a hopeful tone.

It isn't the expensive and meaningless luxury Jason would have bought and given out of his selfish desire for forgiveness he didn't deserve. This was a gift. Simple. Beautiful. I manage to nod and whisper a 'thank you' as I slip the ring on my finger. The white stone glitters in blues, pinks, and soft greens under the light of the bedside table. When I turn my attention back to him, he takes my face in his hands and kisses me.

I am utterly confused. There are many other fantasies in the book. What purpose does this one serve? Why does he choose this one only to change it so drastically? My thoughts drift back to the taste of his mouth, the gentle feel of his hands on my body. I realize that my own hands are unbuttoning his shirt. I no longer care about the fantasy, the book, or why he was here. I want to know the feel of him. I want the choice.

He rises up until I lay under him, eagerly guiding his shirt over his shoulders. He places a small kiss below my ear. My mind races. My heart pounds. My body demands the gentle touch he was offering. He pulls my shirt up over my head. I bring my shaking hands to his handsome face, once again seeking his mouth. His kiss as soft as the words he says to me. The eagerness between us mounts quickly. We pull at each other's remaining clothes, desperate for the intimate feel of flesh against flesh.

My arms and legs wrap around him, pulling him into my body, impatiently welcoming every inch of him. Our bodies move together in a delicious rhythm that keeps my body on the edge of release that seems to last an eternity. A soft wave finally builds to such height that when it crashes and washes over me, I am left breathless. The intensity surprises me. I inhale deeply and let the tears fall from my eyes. He kisses me and then I hear his voice again in my ear. His labored breathing falls hot against my neck as he nears his climax. His hands grip tighter around me. I can feel his heart pound against my breasts. This time, I savor the forcefulness with which my body is entered. I feel the sudden rush of his seed finding its way deep inside of me.

His last few movements are slow as he relaxes above me. His head rests in the hollow of my neck for a long breathless moment. He slips himself from me and pulls me to lie on his chest. His heart beats firmly, but slowly now. He turns off the lamp on the bedside table and we lay in the darkness together. I feel a tender kiss on the top of my head as I drift to sleep.

When I wake, I sense something is different. I move under the softness of the sheets, looking up into the morning light that was beginning to fill the room. My eyes travel from the window, to the furniture, the pictures on the wall. I don't recognize any of it. This is not my bedroom. I rise with a start and glance over at him, realizing I might have awakened him. He shifts slightly and turns on his side, but does not wake.

I pull the top blanket around myself and quietly climb out of the bed. His bed, I assume. I walk over to the window and I can feel the slight chill of the morning. I pull the blanket closer to my body to preserve the warmth I felt against him last night. I look out of the window, part of me afraid because nothing was familiar, part of me elated by what that meant. I don't know how it happened, but I was in the world outside of the book. Where I am or what I should do next...I don't know....

Where is she? What happened to the fantasy? More will be revealed soon ...