by Kitty Thomas
Saying no offered the same level of punishment as trying to take his life. The next time would be three weeks and then four. Eventually I could end up withering away in that cell if I didn't obey him.
In some sense he offered me freedom if I wanted it. All I had to do was refuse him and he wouldn't touch me. I would have nothingness and food that no longer held flavor, but I would be free of his touch.
I knew I'd never take that offer because the freedom he offered me was the kind I'd always loathed. My mind was too full and in need of stimulation to be locked away in the cell forever.
The extremeness of the punishments ensured I wouldn't rebel. I'd already decided I would do anything he wanted without question because I didn't want the cell, and I never wanted to look at chicken noodle soup or crackers again.
I had no doubts he could follow through. If the wait became too long for him, he wouldn't shorten my punishment. He'd kill me or take another slave before he broke his own rules.
He could already have other slaves and I'd have no way of knowing it. It would explain the ease with which he could resist me while I was being punished, despite his obviously strong sexual desire otherwise.
His entire fortress-like home could be a camp for slaves. The thought sent a white-hot bolt of jealousy through me.
I knew it was an inappropriate response. I shouldn't feel jealousy that someone else might call him master and spread their legs for him. I should feel pity for the others he might have taken.
Twenty pages of hand-written text was all it took to specifically lay out the rest of my life for me. There was no room given for interpretation. If he made me come, it was reward. If he whipped me, it was reward.
Any attention or physical contact was reward, no matter the nature of the contact. It was almost appalling to see it written out for me so plain and naked. But I'd already known it. I'd arched up toward him as the riding crop had bitten into my skin, and I'd been thankful to have something instead of nothingness. I'd gotten wet from his gentle ministrations as he'd cleaned and bandaged the wounds he'd inflicted on me.
I was his now beyond safe denial. Beyond right and wrong.
The rest of the notebook contained protocol, daily rituals and the words he wanted to fall from my lips. My training was about to begin in earnest.
He left one more meal for me that evening and brushed my cheek lightly with his fingertips. He lifted the back of my shirt to inspect my skin.
I tensed, wondering if removing the bandages was considered disobedience, if I would earn three weeks for something so simple and small. My body shook from fear that I wouldn't have the chance to prove I could obey him.
“Shhhhh.” He left a gentle kiss on my back, and then he left me alone with my food. I cried with relief.
The next morning my alarm went off at seven-thirty. He would be there at nine. I went through the list, doing what he'd laid out in the notebook, preparing myself for his arrival. I didn't leave anything out because I knew he'd be watching from the dark room with all the monitors.
I bathed in the bath oil he wanted, wore the makeup he wanted, fixed my hair the way he wanted. At nine o'clock I was in place, exactly as he'd instructed, smelling of jasmine and waiting.
***
. . . The door opened and he walked into the room, already undressed, his erection swaying as he moved. She was naked on her knees with her legs spread wide, her hands resting on the floor on either side, her palms facing up in supplication.
The lines in the sand had been drawn, and it was real now. Before, she'd had the small comfort of not accepting. Holding onto some tiny internal piece of her own identity, some vague hope of escape or rescue.
For weeks in her mind she'd thought only of appeasing him for survival, to hold onto herself, so she could think of getting away. Now she was his. The smile on his face said he knew it too. His patience had paid off.
He stood in front of her and her hands went around to grip his ass, pulling him toward her, as if all she wanted was for him to fill some part of her. She wrapped her lips around his cock and greedily sucked him as he ran his fingers through her hair.
He pulled out of her suddenly, and she whimpered.
“Did I do something wrong?”
In reply, he pulled out the blindfold. For a moment, she couldn't breathe. All she could think was that she'd missed something. She'd said or done something wrong. Maybe she'd bitten him without meaning to.
“No . . . please . . . ” She scooted away from him until her back hit the bed. He arched a brow at her, standing like a Greek statue, the scrap of black fabric draped over his hand. Reluctantly she crawled back to him, the tears sliding down her cheeks, and then everything was darkness as he secured the blindfold and led her from the room.
She nearly fainted as her bare feet touched hard concrete floor. He removed the blindfold, and she collapsed to the ground. It wasn't the bad cell. It was the dungeon.
“Thank you, Master,” she whispered.
He crossed the floor to the mini fridge and returned with a cold bottle of water. He twisted off the cap and handed it to her. She drank and didn't stop until it was half empty. He sat on the ground and held her.
She wasn't sure if she imagined the concern in his eyes. Maybe she saw what she wanted to see. She acknowledged she was his, but it didn't mean she wasn't aware he was a monster. He couldn't feel anything. He seemed to be waiting on something, an explanation.
She was sure in his mind he felt he'd been magnanimous. In some ways it was true. And yet she couldn't imagine being more afraid of him if he'd beaten her on a daily basis and cut strips of flesh from her body with a razor blade. He must know how completely he'd broken her.
“I was afraid I had done something wrong and you were taking me back to the bad cell,” she said quietly.
His eyes hardened, and once again she was looking into the emptiness she'd seen on her first day with him, all softness erased. He hadn't been about to take her back there, and she'd opened her stupid mouth and perhaps given him reason to put her there now. All she could think was: three weeks.
She'd nearly lost her mind after one week, and thought she would die after two. She couldn't do three. She'd find some way to end her life if he took her back there.
“No, Master, please. I'm sorry. If I've upset you . . . please please don't take me back there.” She stroked his cock . . . placating. She bent to replace her hand with her mouth, but he pushed her off him and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
He returned several minutes later and threw the notebook down on the ground in front of her, his finger jabbing at the page. In furious pen scribblings he'd circled a passage and underlined the words within it. It was a page about punishment:
You will be punished only when you willfully disobey me. As long as you try to submit to my wishes, you'll be safe.
The words willfully disobey, and try had been heavily underlined. She swiped at the tears on her face and looked up to see his outstretched hand. She took it and followed him to the bed. He placed her on her knees away from him, pushing her down so her forearms rested on the dark velvet, her ass raised in the air.
She tensed when she saw the lubricant. The last time he'd been gentle and made it exquisitely pleasurable. This time, however, he didn't seem intent on starting small. He lubed his cock and then, as if there could be any doubt, he washed his hands in a little sink beside the row of whipping implements.
He nudged her opening, and she fought to relax. Slowly, inch by painful inch, he filled her, and she cried out. He waited and allowed her to adjust to him before moving in and out of her.
He pulled her body up so she was arched impossibly back and cupped a breast with one hand while the other dipped between her legs, pumping in and out of her in rhythm with his thrusts inside her ass.
When his fingers were slick with her juices, he removed them and pressed them into her mouth. In a wild frenzy, she sucked, and lapped up what he offered her before his fingers returned
to pumping inside her, and then to her mouth again. Over and over he repeated the action, feeding her as she moaned around his fingers.
He slammed into her as he came and then let her fall back down onto the bed, her legs quivering jelly. She lay there, shaking and waiting, knowing he wasn't finished with her.
His fingers thrusting into her, combined with his cock in her ass had taken her to the very edge of release. But she didn't come.
He pulled out of her, grabbed her ankles and flipped her onto her back. When she looked at him, he pointed behind her. The chains on the wall. She bit her lip and nodded. She'd never liked being restrained, but he wasn't asking her permission. He was asking if she'd learned her place, if she would accept it and let him chain her with no fuss or if he'd have to put her back in her cell for awhile longer so she could think about it.
The metal locked against her wrists, then around her ankles. She hadn't noticed the ankle chains before. They were bolted into the floor and had been under the bed out of sight until now. The chains spread her legs wide.
He pushed a long, thick vibrator up inside her and set the vibrations to the lowest setting, enough to make her throb and whimper but not enough to bring her release. He crossed the room and rifled through a small closet until he found what he was looking for, a professional-grade camera.
He circled the bed, taking photographs of her, but she didn't care. She couldn't care. She was too far gone and desperate to come. In the back of her mind she feared he'd send the pictures to people she knew or post them on the Internet, and yet still she mindlessly thrust her pussy up at him, trying to buck against the vibrator as if by doing so she could make the pleasure come faster or harder.
He used a roll of film and then placed the camera on the ground. His hand wrapped around the end of the vibrator and fucked her with it so hard she was breathless. With his free hand he gripped her throat, his cold eyes meeting hers.
“Master . . . ” Her voice was pleading, but not pleading to be let go. Pleading to come.
He released her throat and for a moment she believed he thought she was begging him to stop.
“Please, don't stop. I want to come . . . please.”
Her cries were unnecessary; he wasn't unchaining her and letting her go. He moved the vibrator to the highest speed and unchained one of her wrists, placing her hand on her breast, encouraging her to rub herself. Then he loaded another roll of film into the camera and the shutter began to click again.
She came, screaming and bucking as the camera flashed. He walked over and kissed her on the forehead and then left her alone in the room. He hadn't bothered to remove the vibrator. It still pulsed inside her at the highest speed, causing another orgasm to begin to build.
When he finally returned, she'd climaxed five more times and was so wet, the vibrator would have slipped out if not for her free hand holding it in place.
He removed the toy and shut it off. It was dripping with her cum. He held it in front of her face, and she obediently opened her mouth and sucked it as he slid it in and out, until it was clean of her spendings . . .
***
When he returned me to my room I knew why he'd been gone so long. He left me to go prepare my breakfast as I stared at the walls. He must have had his own dark room because there were large blown-up photographs on the walls. Photographs he'd just taken.
I tried not to look at them, but I couldn't seem to tear my eyes away. I went to one wall and ran my fingertips over the picture. My legs were spread so wide, straining against the chains, the tip of the vibrator sticking out, my wetness glistening against my legs, and my face a cross between pleasure and torment.
Eight
Days bled into weeks and then into months, and then it was fall. The leaves were falling off the trees ushering us into winter as I continued marking off the days on the calendar.
Five months.
The first day forever ago when I'd been waiting for him on my knees was the turning point. Everything changed for me after that. I could still form coherent thoughts but all of them circled around how to please him. To make him smile at me. To get his eyes to soften when they looked into mine.
The photographs on the walls taunted me. Over the months, a few more were added, some replacing Degas prints in the studio. Something about me changed in those photos. The first series he took still upset me sometimes because there was such a mixture of pleasure and pain.
He wouldn't let me forget what I had been and what I'd become at his hands. He wanted me to see it like he saw it.
By July, the photos had changed, like they weren't even me. Pain was dwarfed by pleasure, even when there were lash marks on my back, even on the occasions when there was blood. Whatever he did, it didn't matter. I wanted it all.
I should have been repulsed by him. Intellectually I knew that was the proper response. It was the victim response. It was the response that would say to the world I wasn't broken, even though I would have been in more pain that way. It was a mercy to be broken, to be his to the point that it was what I wanted.
If I hadn't been reshaped and reformed into the docile little pet he wanted, I would have cowered and cringed away from him and screamed and cried. Sometimes I screamed and cried anyway, but only when the orgasm overtook me so strongly I could do nothing but empty my soul onto him.
I'd been out of the bad cell for months. I never went back there again. A few times I came close when he'd introduce something new and scary, but ultimately I obeyed whatever he wanted.
After awhile it stopped being about the cell and that perceived punishment. It became instead about him being disappointed in me. I only cared about his eyes and how they reflected me.
In the good cell the warm throbbing between my legs was almost constant. It didn't matter what I was doing. Dancing, bathing, painting my fingernails. Because whatever I was doing, my thoughts rarely strayed far from him and memories of the last time he'd touched me. If I had been his obsession, he had become mine just as strongly.
Sometimes I imagined that when he left me in my rooms, when he was finished playing with me for the day, he went out with his friends and laughed and talked. Maybe he didn't think about me at all. Or he watched television and wasn't troubled with thoughts of me until some small mention, no doubt getting shorter and farther apart, would come up about my disappearance.
I had this image of him as some sort of almost Patrick Bateman from American Psycho. That he lived a double life. One side all privilege and creamy soft-white business cards with perfect fonts, the other blood and darkness. Monster and man.
I found myself wanting the monster because it was honest, a level of honesty most go their entire lives without confronting, always content to hide behind their social masks and business cards.
It was October. By now everything was about him, but at the same time I missed Halloween. The costumes, the parties, going out with my friends. Friends I'd forgotten, as if they'd died. I couldn't see their faces anymore when I closed my eyes; I only saw him. That intense beauty that was almost painful to look at.
My fear had become so entwined with my arousal that I craved everything he did now. I could stay here forever. I wanted to. My family and friends, my career and colleagues, they were all shadows to me now.
I had the barest notion there had been police investigations, frantic searches, tearful panic over my going missing. I'd been a blurb on the national news, a tragic case of a young woman with a bright future and loyal fans. The speculation that a crazed fan had taken me, or someone who hated me.
Which category did my master fall into? Either? Neither? I'd never know. I'd long given up the hope he would ever speak to me.
But he didn't have to use speech. Every touch, every caress, every lash of the whip, crop, or cane. It was all communication, a private conversation that no one else could intrude upon. Before, my life had only been words, shallow, meaningless words dripping from my mouth with no real content. Words for the sake of words to make me feel less alone
in the world. But I had been alone.
Completely.
Then he took me and filled my world so much that even without words, I wasn't alone. We were connected now so deeply that to lose him was to lose life itself. He was everything. We communicated on the primal level of touch. Dominance and submission. Master and slave. Nothing else was required.
I woke on the morning of Halloween with a vague sense of loss. I thought it was because of all I'd missed this year. Or because we were approaching the holidays, and suddenly time would have more form as I lost my first Halloween, my first Thanksgiving, my first Christmas and New Years, but that wasn't it.
My alarm went off at 7:30 as it always did. I happened to glance over to find the door standing wide open.
I can't describe in any rational way the panic that surged through me. What the hell was this? I hadn't felt this way since the first day of my imprisonment when the blindfold had covered my eyes in that still silence, before I'd seen his face or felt his hands on my body.
Normally, he left me instructions with my last meal of the day for what he wanted the following day. I should have known something was wrong when he didn't. Maybe I had. Maybe that was the gnawing feeling that had crept inside me.
I bathed in jasmine oil and got ready. At nine o'clock I was on my knees a few feet from the door, waiting for him. That's when I looked up and noticed the keys. On a little table next to the door were a set of car keys.
If I took them, would the garage door be opened? Would I press the little button and hear the beeps to indicate which car? Could I leave?
That should have been my thought process. My thought process instead went: Is this a test? Does he not want me anymore? Is he abandoning me? How can he abandon me? I did everything he wanted. How can I mean nothing to him after he's trained me like this?