“I’m not raping you,” he says, slowly rubbing his fingers between my legs. “I’m just touching you. And you love it. You’re wet for me.”
My body reacts instinctively, writhing in a desperate attempt to escape. The memories he’s calling up are too familiar. “Don’t touch me there!” I sob. “Please. My stepfather used to…”
He freezes instantly, withdrawing his hand, and my panic recedes. The relief that floods me makes me want to weep with ridiculous, pathetic gratitude.
“He raped you?” And there’s harsh anger in his voice, but it’s not at me. He’s angry with my stepfather. I know that somehow.
I gulp in deep breaths, my chest heaving in distress. I don’t want to talk about this, but as long as I’m talking, Joshua is listening to me and not moving on to whatever he has planned next. “No. I was seven. He touched me between my legs a few times when he was drunk and my mom was passed out in their bedroom. I used to press my legs together really tight and squirm away from him, and he’d stop.” My stomach clenches, and I press back against the wall, as if I can shrink away from the memories.
I don’t like the way Joshua is staring at me, intently, blue eyes probing the tender, painful recesses of my mind. “What happened to him?”
I choke on the words. “He left.”
He nods solemnly, kneeling again, and kisses my stomach, his lips featherlight. I gasp in arousal.
“He’s gone forever. When I’m touching you, you only think of me. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
He kisses my navel. “Do you like that? Don’t lie to me, Tamara. I’ll know.”
No, you won’t. Because I just lied to you right now about my stepfather leaving.
Because I did a Bad Thing.
But my lips open and I hear myself saying, “Yes.”
I want to believe I’m just saying that because as long as he’s kissing me, he’s not hurting me. He threatened punishment, and I’m sure it’s still coming. But the truth is, he’s forcing my own body to betray me, and the pleasure flooding through me is like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
He slowly kisses his way down, lips caressing my flesh, and then his mouth is on the seam of my heated sex, and his tongue probes gently. I gasp in arousal and part my legs. It’s like my body belongs to someone else. My mind is screaming in protest and my body is a slut in heat.
“Do you like that?” He pauses, waiting.
“Yes.” I grind the word out, hating myself for saying it.
Only then does he move. My acknowledgment guides him downward. He spreads me open with his fingers, and before I know it, I’ve arched my back and moved my hips forward to meet him.
His mouth closes over my clitoris, sucking on the sensitive little nub, and a whimper escapes my lips. When he pulls away, the loss of sensation is almost painful, and I bite my lip hard so I don’t whimper again.
“How about that?” He waits for my answer. I could say no, and I believe he’d stop.
I close my eyes and grab at what’s left of my self-control. “I don’t want to be here. I want you to set me free. I hate you and I want you to die.”
“I know all that,” he says patiently. “But that’s not what I asked you. Do you like what I’m doing to you right now?”
“Yes,” I whisper, as if saying it very, very quietly will make it untrue.
He buries his face between my legs, stroking me with his tongue several times, and my muscles start to relax as I abandon myself to the delicious sensation for a few moments. Then the reality of what I’m doing crashes down on me, and I jerk my body violently, moving my hips a few inches to the left and dislodging him. But only because he lets me. Apparently he told the truth. He won’t force himself on me sexually.
He stands up, then runs his finger along his lips and slides it into his mouth, sucking off my juices. It’s incredibly sensual, and I start to relax, slumping back against the wall, but the moment is gone all too soon.
The dreamy look vanishes, and his face settles into a hard, merciless mask. “Now it’s time to address your behavior earlier.”
He walks away again, and I go stiff with fear. Was this because I moved away from him? Should I have let him continue? What would be worse—the pain he’s going to inflict on me, or the sickening humiliation of letting my kidnapper nudge me toward orgasm?
And why is he taking so long? I stare straight ahead, not wanting to see what he’s doing. I hear him walking slowly, the sound of his footsteps bouncing off the walls and smacking my ears. I think he must have designed the room so that footsteps would echo. It’s part of the whole effect, everything in here designed to build fear and anticipation.
I try to comfort myself, fortify my mind against what’s coming.
My stepfather used to beat my bare behind with a belt. I’ve experienced pain before. I can take it. I’ll just grit my teeth and bear it. I didn’t even cry out for my stepfather, not after the first few times. I didn’t give him the satisfaction. I’m strong. I can survive this. I can.
He’s coming back.
And he’s holding a long, tan wooden stick with a leather-wrapped handle.
“As you’ve seen, I am a collector of implements of flagellation. Over time, I’m going to use many of them on you. Sometimes I’ll use them to punish you. Sometimes I’m going to do it just for fun. Because inflicting pain turns me on. So the last thing you want to do is give me an excuse.”
The horror of my new life explodes over me like a bomb, and I feel all my bravery washing away. I can’t stop staring at him, misery and fear painting my face.
He holds the stick up, turning it in his hands. “This is a cane. A barbaric method of chastisement. It’s still used in corporal punishment in many countries, including Singapore, Malaysia, and Saudi Arabia. Do you know why?”
I drag back a little bit of my courage and say something I know I’ll regret very soon. “No, but since you love the sound of your own voice, I’m sure you’re going to tell me.” I have to. I’m getting more and more frightened, and I’m afraid that soon I won’t have any more courage left, so I’ll use it while I still can.
He laughs, as if I’ve just said something terribly witty. “It’s used because it hurts like a bitch. The first few blows aren’t that bad, but then the skin starts to soften and it’s agony. I’ve trained in every kind of whip and cane. There’s a technique to it. You have to strike the areas where there’s fat and muscle, and avoid the bony areas to prevent permanent nerve damage. And the cane can decide how hard to strike. It’s the movement of the wrist, not the arm, that’s important, by the way.” He turns the cane over in his hand, admiring it. “This is one of the thicker canes. I prefer them to the thinner models. Thicker canes are less likely to break the skin, and they leave deeper bruising, which will give you something to think about for the next week or two.” He slaps it on his palm, and the sound makes me jump.
He laughs again, a warm, rich sound. The bastard laughs.
Fear is funny to him.
I hate him so much that I can’t believe the sheer force of my rage hasn’t killed him. My hate is a storm inside me, emptying me out and hollowing me with fury.
He moves forward, and I don’t resist as he spins me around to face the wall. When he tries to cuff my ankles, though, I kick him in the face as hard as I can. It’s like kicking a building. My foot bounces off, but his head doesn’t move at all.
“Five strokes for talking back to me at dinner. Five for spitting in my face. Five for kicking me.” And he captures and cuffs each ankle, leaving me secured, hand and foot.
I go rigid, bracing myself, but he waits so long that finally my muscles tire and I slump in my chains.
That’s when I hear something whistling through the air, and I don’t even have time to tense up again before I feel a crack across the top of my left butt cheek.
“One,” he says.
A split-second passes, and it’s the last moment of my life when I am ignorant of what real pain is. Th
en a slash of red-hot agony claws into my flesh. I thought it hurt when my stepfather whipped me with his belt. That was a gentle caress compared to this.
Joshua said the first few strokes weren’t that bad. Oh God, will it get even worse? This is a line of pure fire running across my skin. I buck and gulp in air. Before I even get the chance to scream, he strikes again. Another slash of fire is painted across my buttocks, crisscrossing the first. “Two.”
“Nooo!” I scream.
“Three.” He strikes the right cheek. I feel every blow as a lightning strike that never ends, burning and burning with eternal agony. I buck and howl, my legs jerking violently at the chains.
“Stop!” I shriek at the top of my lungs. It’s not the conscious part of my mind saying that; it’s the survival instinct of my maddened animal brain. I can’t throw my hands out to block the blows. I can’t run away. All I have is my weak, useless words.
Another crack across the right cheek. “Four.” Wildfire burns across my flesh.
“Stop, stop, stop!” My voice rises higher and higher until it’s nothing but a helpless squeak, with no force behind it.
There’s a long, long pause, and I’m sobbing, gulping for air. It’s agony waiting for the blow. When he hits me again, the strangled noise I make isn’t a word.
“That was the first five. For talking back to me.”
Oh God, ten more.
I can’t survive this.
“Please, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, I’m really, really sorry!” I want to vomit as soon as I spit out the words. Why am I so weak?
“Irrelevant.” His vile voice rings out behind me.
And he resumes, this time with a rapid flurry of blows across each butt cheek, moving from top to bottom. He barks the numbers in staccato fashion. “Six, seven, eight, nine, ten!” As he finishes the last blow, I feel a wildfire roaring over my skin.
All I can do is howl wordlessly in agony now. It burns and burns without end. My entire ass feels as if someone drenched it in gasoline and set it aflame. My muscles clench and spasm, and I shake my ass from side to side in a frantic attempt to relieve some of the pain. I’m desperate to rub my burning flesh, but the brutal cuffs won’t let me.
He’s not hitting me anymore. We must be done. I have to believe that. He took mercy on me—he’ll spare me the final five. If I don’t believe that, I’m going to die. My body shakes with sobs, and I’m gasping so much that I feel lightheaded. I don’t know how much time goes by before he slides the cane along the wall, in front of my face.
“We’ll move on to your tits next. I like a riding crop for the tits. Kiss the cane and tell me thank you for punishing you.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind, you asshole?” I scream at him before I can stop myself.
He grins, and a cruel glee lights his eyes. “You are a glutton for punishment, aren’t you? Five more.”
“No!”
“You haven’t called me Master yet. You might want to rethink that.” The light teasing tone in his voice is that of a joking lover. But he’s anything but. I hear the cane whistling through the air, the most horrible sound in the world, and it splashes bloody, agonizing fire across the back of my thigh, and my whole body convulses. He reaches out and squeezes my left butt cheek, torturing my seared flesh with his brutal grip, and I let out another screech of pain.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Master! I’m sorry!” I scream. I’m weak. I’m disgusting. I hate myself so much.
He lifts my cheek and smacks the cane across the crease where my butt cheek joins my thigh. “Four more.”
I make a gargling sound of pure despair.
He repeats the motion on the other side, lifting my cheek to expose tender flesh before he strikes it. Then he moves down to the backs of my thighs, and my legs jerk like an electrocuted frog with each blow. My skin is soaked in flames. My throat is raw from screaming.
Finally, he finishes and shoves the cane in front of my face. Frantically, I press my lips against it. “Thank you for punishing me, Master,” I sob.
He uncuffs my ankles and spins me around to face him. My legs are too weak to hold me up, and I sag, my weight pulling on my wrists, and sob uncontrollably. The agony pulses with every beat of my heart.
He walks away and sets the cane down on a bench, then pulls a whip from the wall.
Five more.
“Master, no! Please! I’m sorry! Master!” Every time I say that horrible word, I hate myself more. It sticks in my throat, sending shudders of revulsion through my body. But I’ll say anything right now to get the pain to stop.
He stalks over, smiling as he holds out his new torture tool for my inspection. “Riding crop. It’s got quite a vicious little bite.”
All I can do is moan in despair. Begging won’t help. Nothing will help. What happened to the man who kissed his way down my stomach, the man who vowed to drive all memory of my stepfather from my mind, who made me feel almost safe, minutes ago? I want him back. Please come back.
He raises his arm and smacks my breast, and I learn the difference between a cane and a crop. This is a crisp, sharp razor’s edge of agony slicing across the delicate flesh. He slashes me three times on the right breast and twice on the left breast. I scream, my throat raw, my mouth open in an endless howl.
Then he holds it up for me to kiss, and I do, pressing my lips against the hateful braided leather handle. I’m sobbing so hard that I can barely speak.
“Thank you for punishing me, Master.” I choke out the words.
Chapter Eight
Tamara
When he uncuffs my wrists, I sink to my knees. He towers over me like a vengeful god.
“Did you learn your lesson?”
“Yes, Master.” I sob out the words, hanging my head in despair, too ashamed of my weakness to look at him. I thought I’d be so much stronger than this.
He scoops me up, and I jerk in pain as he carries me across the room. Everywhere my whipped flesh presses against his arm, the agony is multiplied.
“Please, it hurts,” I whimper, and he starts to squeeze me hard. I arch my back as pain sears my body. “Master!” I scream. “Please, no more, Master!”
He relaxes his grip, and when we reach a padded table, he sits me down on it. “Lie down,” he says.
I groan as I obey him, lying face down and pressing my cheek into the cool leather. A minute later, I feel something cold on my butt, and at first I tense up, but then I relax as the pain fades a little bit. He’s massaging something into the whip marks that must be medicated, because the burn cools significantly. His gentle hands sweep over my skin, stroking numbing, soothing comfort into my flesh. I moan with gratitude.
He moves over every throbbing inch, and the feeling of his palms on my skin is the most delicious sensation I’ve ever experienced. His hands are broad and strong and talented; he knows just how much pressure to apply. I force myself to go silent, to stifle my whimpers of appreciation, because that’s just rewarding him for hurting me earlier. I just lie there, eyes clenched tightly, my face sticky with my shed tears, as his hands slowly move up and down my butt and thighs.
“Stand up.”
I slowly, carefully slide off the bed, my arms instinctively moving to hide my crotch and breasts. He frowns at me, shaking his head, and I drop them to my sides.
He begins massaging the medicated cream into my breasts, and the agonized stripes of fire fade to a dull heat. His thumbs stroke over my nipples, which are swollen with hateful arousal. Were they swollen when he was whipping me? How did this happen? He watches me, and as I bite my lip and fight not to pant with pleasure, I can see him drinking in my struggle with a faint smile.
My knees tremble, and I’m afraid I’m going to fall. I’m still in enormous pain, but I no longer feel as if my skin will split with the tiniest movement.
He walks away, going to the sink to wash his hands. When he returns, he holds out a glass of water to me, and two white pills. “Extra-strength painkiller and a mild sedative. Y
ou’re still going to be in pain for days, of course, but this will take the edge off. You may thank me.”
“Thank you, Master,” I mutter, staring at the floor again so he won’t see the hatred flaring in my eyes. Fuck yourself up the ass, Joshua Smith. You’ll never be my master. Thinking that makes me instantly feel better about myself. I revise the earlier list of rules that I made for myself.
That list was based on believing he’d torture me to death. Now, if he’s telling me the truth, I’m facing a different, equally sinister plan. He wants to break me down mentally and force me to be something I’m not. A crawling slave with no will or wants of her own. A slow, humiliating death of the mind, rather than a quick, agonizing death of the body.
New rules. Lie to him all the time and pretend you’re going along with his twisted plans. Remember that you’re a free woman, and no human can ever truly own another. Constantly watch out for any opportunity to escape.
My hands tremble as I stuff the pills in my mouth. I wash them down with the water, suddenly incredibly thirsty.
He walks over to the wall and uses the intercom to call Elizabeth, and I jerk in horror. “My clothing! Please give me something to wear! Master!”
“You haven’t earned it. You’re doing a shit job of remembering to address me properly, and your behavior today was completely unacceptable.” He smiles at me sympathetically. “Let’s hope you do better tomorrow, hmm?”
I glare at the ground again. “Yes, Master.” I hope you choke and die, Joshua Smith.
The next thing I know, he’s cuffing my hands behind my back. Elizabeth walks in, ignoring me as the hood goes back over my head.
The cuffs and the hood are unnecessary at this point; I’m in too much pain to move quickly, much less fight her off, and I’m positive there’s no easy way for me to break out of this house, wherever it is. They’re just being used as a tool to break me down psychologically, to reinforce the difference between upstairs and down. Heaven and Hell. Freedom and misery.
But the tactic doesn’t work, because I recognize it for what it is, which pleases me. I have to figure Joshua out if I’m to have any hope of escape, and any insight that I can glean into his twisted mind will be helpful.
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