“Do what I tell you.” He sounds distracted. “Say you understand.”

“I understand.” I wish I knew what he was doing. The temptation to turn around is overwhelming.

“Your Colonia underwear is little girl cotton. Right?” There’s a humming undercurrent to his words, but it’s not as saturated in every tone and syllable. He’s not paying full attention.

I look around. His shoulders are bare, and his head is bent down.

“Yes. What are you—?” I figure it out before I finish the question and turn back around. He’s looking at the shapes I embroidered inside his pocket hem. “Yes. Basic cotton. Black though, because I’m in mourning for my father… who you killed.”

The arrow stitch starts the sequence. Every line goes to an invisible number, which can be one of three letters on the phone keypad, and picks up a fabric thread where it angles off to another invisible number and three-letter set, where it picks up the thread until the French knot ends the word.

What was I thinking? It’s too complicated.

No wonder he’s distracted. He not only has to figure out all that, but then he also has to choose between three letters to make a word without even pen and paper. What if he picks the wrong letter and it means something completely different?

“When I take you out of here, you’ll burn it and wear what I give you. Something fit for a whore.”

We’re not truly alone. I don’t know how much of what we say can be heard, but anything could be too much. The charade of Colonia loyalty I’ve developed could slip. I can’t let that happen even if Dario believes I’ve turned on him.

“I won’t go with you,” I say for the microphones.

“You’re my wife and you’ll do what I tell you.”

Despite his distraction, I’m suddenly back to how we were in those first days, when my obedience was balanced on the razor-thin edge of marriage vows.

“You’re going to tell me to touch myself.”

“See, you’re still a good girl.”

“Tell me where they are.”

“Get one finger under that shitty cotton.”

I push my shame so deep I can’t feel it and slide one finger under my panties.

“Tell me,” I demand.

“You’re wet.”

It’s too simple a phrase for him and uttered in distraction. He needs me to pick up the slack while he decodes my message.

“I’m very wet. My cunt is very slippery.”

“You sound like you just learned English.”

“Tell me what to do.”

“Figure it out.”

I have to commit to this so they won’t wonder what’s distracting him.

Sliding that one finger along my seam, I say what he’d say.

“It’s waiting for your cock. For when you stretch it out so much I want to scream. But you don’t let me scream. I’m only allowed to say your name, and if I don’t, you punish me. You beat my ass so bad it hurts when you fuck me from behind. You hold me down and fuck so hard. You’re mean. You spread my legs so far apart I’m defenseless. It’s like you want to break me in two.” I’m stroking a fire between my legs, imagining him above me, hair swaying against his forehead. He’s growling, grabbing, lost in his lust like an animal tearing apart his prey. “You bury that huge thing inside me, and I do break. I say Dario, Dario, Dario, and you fuck and fuck until I forget my name.”