by Kitty Thomas
I go to the bathroom and take the first aid kit out of the cabinet. When I return, I put everything on the ground next to the mattress and sit down. I gently touch a part of his shoulder that isn't damaged and shake him.
“Master,” I say. Our captor was very clear about how I am to address my co-captive. It doesn't matter what Seven and I think about it, it isn't worth it to disobey. And after the darkly twisted pleasure I just received in the dungeon, the smallest part of me wants to follow these orders even beyond the terror of what might happen if I don't.
He groans and shifts.
I stroke the side of his face. “Just be still. I'm going to bandage you up.”
Seven becomes alert, his eyes flying open. “Did he hurt you?”
“N-no. Not like you. I'm okay.” I'm not really okay, but I'm not bleeding.
“Don't call me that,” he says. So he heard the first word I spoke to him.
“I have to. It's what he wants. Don't shame me for...”
He reaches out, his hand gripping mine, stopping me.
“I would never shame you, but I can't stand to see you demeaned like this.”
“I know.”
I gently extricate my hand from his and start cleaning the marks on his back. I have a complicated swirl of emotions surrounding Seven. In such a short period of time, I'm starting to feel things for him that I don't think I should, things I'm not sure are real. It's the trauma bonding of an extreme situation.
Not that I wouldn't be attracted if we'd met in a normal way. I would be. And I'm sure in time, I would come to know and understand his very appealing protective nature. But it feels like letting myself feel things for Seven is all a part of a complex game that I don't yet fully understand the rules for. And I'm afraid if I let myself care for him, it only gives me more to lose.
He winces but doesn't cry out as I apply an antibiotic cream to his back. I feel so guilty that I don't have any marks. I know it would upset Seven if my skin had been broken, but it feels wrong that he got all this pain and damage, and I got earth shattering pleasure.
The original shame I felt at this is completely overwhelmed by the shame I feel now at the very different experience I got in the dungeon. I unroll the gauze across the marks that are open, and tape it down with medical tape. Some of his whip lashes are just red, not bloody, so I leave those alone except for the cream.
Seven struggles to sit up. He lets out a pained hiss as he leans against the wall.
“Maybe you shouldn't do that,” I say.
He shakes his head. “No. It's cool to the touch. It's better now. I'm fine.” His hazel gaze cuts to mine, concerned. “What did he do to you?”
I look away. “Just leave it.”
The voice of our captor comes out over the speaker again. “I gave our girl her first vaginal orgasm. It's too bad you missed the show, the way she bucked against the vibrator... the way she begged me. It was beautiful.”
My face flames at this, and I can't look at Seven.
“You sick fuck!” Seven says.
For the smallest moment, I worry those words are directed at me, but when I look back at him, I see his face is turned up toward the camera.
“You were the one who wanted her to have a lighter punishment. You made a trade. Do you regret the choice now that you know what lighter punishment means?” our captor mocks.
Seven's voice comes out so cold it frightens me. “You will make a mistake. And when you do, I will kill you.”
The only response from our captor is laughter. “I really love this noble act you've got going.”
“It's not an act.”
“Of course it is. Everything is an act. Everything is a game,” our captor says. “Ready for lunch, pets? You've been so good I didn't even drug it this time.”
Bottles of water are dropped through the slot. Since Seven is hurt, I go over to the food slot and take the plates as they come through. Both plates are white this time. It's ham and cheese sandwiches, pickles, and potato chips. Is it really lunchtime?
I know it's at least day because of my time outside the cell, the windows we passed.
We eat experimentally as if we don't trust our captor's assurances about the state of the food, but there really are no drugs this time. So he must not be coming in. In fact, several days pass without him coming in or even speaking to us except to announce food so one of us can go get it as it's passed through the slot.
We’re fed three times a day, and the food matches the time of day. Typical breakfast, lunch, and dinner fare seem to be served at the appropriate times.
I find myself weirdly grateful to our captor for this way to mark time. Each night, Seven and I sleep curled up together on the mattress. We turn the bathroom light out to sleep and lie together in total darkness.
In this darkness and privacy, Seven touches me. We never had a conversation about it. He didn't ask. I didn't say no. And he hasn't asked for the favor to be returned. I feel somehow shy about touching him back. So I just lie there under the cover of darkness as he caresses me and kisses my throat.
He starts out innocent each time. Safe places. My hair and face. My arms and legs. But he always finds his way to my breasts and then between my thighs, which I spread open for him every night without fail. He strokes me until I come, trying to keep my desperate panting and moans quiet but always failing. Then he whispers in my ear “Sleep.”
And I do.
My dreams are intense and erotic. Usually it's Seven I dream about. But sometimes it's our captor. I try not to think about those dreams. Seven is okay. Our captor isn't. Even so, the dreams with cold light gray eyes are more intense because they are more wrong.
What I do for Seven each day isn't sexual. I take care of his back. I help him bathe without getting the bandages wet, and then I change them, applying more ointment to the whiplashes that still need them.
Each morning there are new clothes for Seven and the old clothes have been taken out. There seems to be a rotation of three pairs of jeans and T-shirts for him since he doesn't sleep naked. He never wears the T-shirt anymore. I think he only wears the jeans because he doesn't want me to feel threatened by his near-constant erection around me.
I've slept through this strange clothing exchange every night but one. One night I heard the door slide open. I held my breath. No light ever came on, which makes me wonder if our captor is using night vision goggles. He never touched me. I just heard a few soft sounds, and then he was gone.
Chapter Six
It's the fifth day of this routine. We just had our breakfast. Seven is in the bathroom running a bath in the large jacuzzi tub. When he steps out into the cell, the bandages are gone. There will be scars, but he's healed and no longer in any pain. And thankfully, they didn't get infected.
“Come take a bath,” he says. I think I hear an unspoken with me in there.
I've grown to not only trust Seven but to feel comfortable with him. I no longer try to hide my body from his hungry gaze. I'm not sure why our captor hasn't escalated things, why he hasn't touched me again, or why he hasn't made Seven fuck me for his amusement again. And while I'm grateful, there are the dreams that say there’s an animal part of me that wants more to happen—that is ready for more to happen, even though the civilized part of me rebels.
It’s only in the absence of the sexual demands of our captor that I learn to crave it. To want it. Maybe it's partly because of the way Seven has unknowingly stoked this fire within me each night as he touches me, and I open and surrender to his questing hands. I don't know why Seven does it. I think it's some sort of strange comfort.
Or maybe he wants me too much. Maybe fucking me that first time has stoked a fire in him that now won't go out, either. Maybe he reasons that giving me pleasure is less evil than taking it from me. After all, what does he get out of this arrangement?
I get up and follow Seven into the bathroom. He strips off his jeans and gets into the tub. He crooks a finger at me and points to the water. The way he loo
ks at me now is entirely carnal. He doesn't want to just take a bath. And neither do I.
I climb into the tub with him, leaning back against his chest. His erection presses against my lower back.
“Seven?”
His hand clamps over my mouth.
“Shhh. Listening devices, remember?”
I nod, and he pulls his hand away.
“Master?” I think if I quickly correct my error, our captor might not punish me for the mistake.
I feel Seven's cock go harder beneath me. He may be upset by my degradation on a purely moral level. But he likes it when I use that word. He likes that word directed at him. It turns him on. It doesn't mean he wants it exactly—especially if he thinks I don't want it—but it does excite him, which makes me feel just a little bit better about it. Because it excites me, too.
“Why do you think he's doing this?” I ask. We both know I don't mean why is he holding us captive. He's a psycho doesn't really need further explanation. No, the question is why is he just feeding us and leaving us alone, not taunting us, not messing with us. Is he bored? I remember he said smart people don't get bored, and I know he thinks of himself as smart.
“I'm not sure. But I don't like it. I don't think we can trust this peace and safety.”
I tense in Seven's arms, but I think the same.
We don't say anything more. There’s been a silence between us for most of our time together in the cell, but it's a comfortable silence. It's a silence that feels much safer than talking.
He takes a raspberry shower gel and squeezes some into his hands and starts to wash me. I sigh in contented pleasure leaning into his touch as he massages the gel into my skin. I shouldn't feel this good being held captive. Seven is slow and thorough. His hands linger longer over my breasts, my ass, and between my legs. His fingers slip inside me, and I buck against him.
“Wait...” I say, “what about you?”
I wanted to return the favor and wash him, though maybe not with raspberry. I think I saw some peppermint in the cabinet. Even though I find myself too shy to initiate anything, to touch him without him guiding me to, I really want to touch him. I remember that first day in the shower. I want to lick that 'V' again.
“I showered while you were still sleeping. We don't need to bathe me. Turn around and straddle me.”
We've gone days with him only giving, never taking. His restraint has been admirable. Each day he hasn't asked anything of me, I've grown to trust him a little more. But we both have needs, and we're here together. It seems foolish not to take our pleasures where we can get them. Especially if we'll probably die here.
I know our captor says he won't get bored and that killing is unimaginative, but what does he plan to do with us when he's finished? Because someday he will be finished.
I start to turn around to do what Seven has asked, but his hand on my hip stills me.
“Wait, are you on birth control?”
He could have asked the question when we fucked a few days ago, but we were hungry and not exactly in the right frame of mind for that thought process. And it didn't matter anyway, if we wanted to eat. He knows I can't be on the pill. Is he hoping I had the shot?
“No, but I don't need it. I can't have children.”
“How do you know?”
“Trust me. I know. I had to see a lot of doctors when I was a teenager. They discovered an abnormality in my uterus. It wasn't directly related to the problem I was having but they stumbled on it. I've been this way since birth. The short version is I can't have kids.”
“There's no treatment or surgery?”
“There really isn't anything they can do in my case. Some women with milder abnormalities have lots of miscarriages but have at least a small chance of maintaining a pregnancy, but mine is too malformed. It just can't happen. I'm not built right.”
At first I don't realize I've started crying. Seven strokes my back.
“Shhh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I just didn't want to take more risks than we had to.”
“It's okay.”
Is this why he hasn't taken? Even though we’re being fed on a regular schedule, I’m still bait. I'm still naked, locked in an enclosed space with a man strong enough to take what he wants. And he would never get caught by any outside authorities because we both know we will never be free.
If he wasn't afraid I'd get pregnant—with whatever added horror that might entail—would he still have had this saintly self-control?
He's stroking my hair. “Do you want me?” he asks.
He never asked if I wanted him to stroke me to orgasm each night in the dark. My legs falling open when he reached my thighs was enough for him. But this is obviously different.
“Yes, Master.”
A sharp intake of breath is his only reply. He does like it when I call him that. He doesn't want to like it, but he likes it.
“You know you don't have to call me that when we're alone.”
“I have to call you something, and he won't allow names. It doesn't bother me.”
“Climb on top of me and ride me,” he says, choosing not to address the fact that calling him master doesn't bother me.
It's such a weird thing for me to have said, but it doesn't bother me. In the time we've been captive together I've started to feel this strange submissive urge toward him. I like the idea of him having this power. It makes me feel safer even though I know I'm not.
I turn and straddle him, sliding down over his huge cock. I don't know how many times we'll do this, but I'm sure I’ll never get used to his size.
“You are so fucking tight. How are you so fucking tight?”
I shrug. “No children?”
“Good point.”
I close my eyes and slowly start to move. I brace my hands against his chest. His hands come up and close over mine.
“Open your eyes. Look at me,” he says.
I open my eyes and hold his hazel gaze. This can't really be called fucking. It's making love. I'm not sure how I feel about that, but it's what it is. It's slow and sweet, but the angles are all wrong. It's too hard to do this in this tub. Seven realizes the same thing.
“Let's move to the shower,” he says.
“Okay.” I get up on shaking legs, and he helps me out of the tub. He pulls the plug and lets that water drain as he moves us into the huge shower. He doesn't turn the water on. He just pulls me into the enclosed glass space with him. Without a word, he bends me forward until my hands are resting flat on the ground.
I gasp when he enters me from behind. I've never done this in this position. The penetration is so deep that I feel this excited flip in my stomach with every thrust. I've secretly wanted his cock inside me again for so long that I don't need him to tease me or work me up. I'm already wet and ready for him.
The wait, the tightness, the angle, it's all too much for him, too. He drives into me with such ferocity it steals my breath. No sweet words of endearment are exchanged between us. We are no longer making love. We are fucking. Or he is fucking me. There is something animal and wild in this moment. His ability to resist this has frayed at the edges. He has frayed at the edges.
He lets out a harsh guttural sound when he comes, then he pulls out of me. I think I might cry. I know he didn't mean it this way, but I feel like he just used me for his own pleasure without anything for me—like he just masturbated inside my body. A part of me is turned on, but another part is pissed being left like this, so desperate and needing.
I know I'm technically way ahead on the orgasm count, but still.
He steps out of the shower, and I just stand there for several minutes, numb. How is it that what happened in the dungeon with that sick psychopath feels like less of a violation somehow than this? I just had a bath, but I feel like I need another one.
I'm about to turn on the water and bathe again when he says, “Come out here.”
I step out of the shower to find he's laid several large thick bath towels down on the tile floo
r. He motions for me and I join him.
“Lie down.”
I wonder if these short sharp orders are a result of hearing the word Master on my lips. It's as though this word flips a switch inside him, and suddenly he wants to possess me.
I lie down on my back. He settles between my legs and languidly caresses and licks me until I come, my legs shaking from the force of my pleasure. I now feel so stupid for doubting him, for thinking he would leave me unfulfilled and just use me. I let out a long contented sigh as he strokes my belly.
He gets up and comes back a few minutes later with a warm wet wash cloth which he uses to clean me from our mingling fluids slipping down my thighs. I am falling for this man, and I no longer care if it's real.
***
I feel strangely self-conscious when we go back into the cell. Seven has jeans on again. He sits on his side of the cell beside the mattress, and I sit on mine. This draws an odd look from him.
“Don't you want to come lie down with me?” he asks. He looks almost hurt by this, as though I'm rejecting him.
I don't know why I went to my old spot. Before I can answer, sounds are coming out of the speaker. It's the sounds of him fucking me in the shower—that wild animal sound he made when he came. There’s silence for a moment, and then it's my recorded moans of pleasure filling the cell.
Then the voice speaks for the first time outside of meals in five days. “It's about time,” he says. “I thought you two would never fuck on your own. It was like watching pandas in captivity.”
I swallow hard, my gaze going to Seven's.
“Congratulations, pets,” our captor says. “You've unlocked the next level. I know he's been touching you at night. The cameras have a night vision setting, but you can't level up unless you fuck on your own. I'm so excited.”
I don't know why my subconscious mind has been romanticizing and sending me erotic dream imagery of our captor, but suddenly all the fear of him is back in a single moment.