The Proposal (Patreon)

I had to admit it really was a beautiful spot, just as he had promised. You could see the wheat fields stretching out for miles below the slope, golden in the afternoon glow. They were perfectly framed by the trees on either side of our parking spot, giving off that wonderful late-summer fragrance of hot greenery and hay. All of it wasted on me, my attention focused on the man sitting beside me on the truck flatbed, also fragrant with tobacco and hot afternoon man.

"You'll love it," he said with that local twang. "I can set you up in your own room if you like. Take it slow, you know, so you can settle in. There's so much work." My heart was racing as I looked him over. Lean, farm-built muscles, wrapped in late-summer tanned skin, poured into blue jeans and a cutoff shirt that didn't leave much to the imagination. He wasn't magazine cover shredded, but you could tell that if he ever bothered to cut he'd have abs like any model. The shitty tattoo peaking out on his back would probably keep him off the front pages though.

He turned and our eyes met. He had kind, greenish eyes. I wanted to look away, but his gaze was magnetic. "Fuck, you're cute," he said and smiled. We just stared for seconds. "You'll need some new clothes though to blend in. And a haircut," he said and ruffled my hair. "We'll do something about that tonight. Hang on, I'll get something. Stay here!"

He jumped off the flatbed in a well-rehearsed athletic leap and walked around to get something from the passenger's side. I wanted to jump off the truck too, run down the green hill, and into the fields below, but I remained as he had said. In a moment he was back with an opened beer can in his hand. Just as swiftly, despite the logger boots, he was back on the bed next to me. "I think you should get a tattoo also. Not a branding exactly, but something that shows you belong." He rubbed his thumb against my shoulder. "I can get Dylan to do it."

He looked out over the fields and took another big swig from the can, but backwashed quite a bit back into the can. "Here, drink this," he said and handed over the almost full can. I took a big sip. It wasn't as bad as I had feared. He must have stored it in a cooler because while it wasn't exactly cold, it was way cooler than the hot inside of the truck. I was about to take another sip when I could feel the tingle again. It was almost like the feeling of your leg falling asleep, but in your brain. I've been feeling it for about an hour now, though less and less, ever since he stepped out of his truck at the gas station, put his hand on me where I was filling up my car, and said "Be silent. You belong to me now. Do as you are told."

"Empty the can," he said. "I want you completely obedient before we get home, and fully broken in by tomorrow morning. I want you unrecognizable by the end of the week, in case the sheriff comes looking for some missing person." I felt desperation surging in me. This would be my last chance to escape. I wanted to fight him, though probably futile given his body. Arms shaking, struggling to resist, I emptied the can and my mind felt like a glass of sparkling wine.