Fifty Days of Sin

by Serena Dahl

  My eyes are wide with fear as he releases the gag. He drops it to the floor and suddenly leans forward towards me. I shrink back but there’s nowhere I can go as he kisses me on the lips with surprising tenderness.

  “I loved you so much, Justine,” he repeats. “Even though you’re a whore. But I’ve seen you with Adam.” He shakes his head and I wonder how he knows his name. “If I can’t have you, he can’t have you either.” I feel a jolt of terror. Does this mean he’s going to kill me?

  “Michael, please, let’s talk about this,” I start to plead, desperate to think of some way to get out of this so I’m safe. If I can convince him that I’ll get back together with him perhaps I can get out of here alive. “I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your messages. I shouldn’t have ignored you. It wasn’t Adam all the time – I’ve been really busy at work. But I’ve split up with Adam now so I’m free. And things are easier now at work; I’d have more time to see you. Maybe we could talk things through and start again?”

  “So you’re not seeing him any more?” he asks, an absurd look of hope on his face.

  “No, we had a massive argument,” I reply, feeling a deep well of despair surge inside me. Is it two o’clock yet? Will Adam be waiting for me in the Crooked Pot? Dimly, I realise that when I don’t turn up he’ll just think that I’ve changed my mind and stood him up. I can feel tears well in my eyes and I blink them back. I have to focus on getting Michael onto my side.

  “You’re lying, you slut,” he spits, and suddenly draws back his hand to deliver a stinging blow to my cheek. His blow forces my head back to hit the wood of the door with a loud thud. A dull pain fills my skull and I taste blood.

  “I’m not, Michael, I really have split up with Adam.”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” he states, his mouth grim. “I know all about Adam Benedict. I know where he lives and I know how to get in. Once I’ve finished here, I’ll go and find him.”

  Renewed terror hits me like a physical pain. So he plans to kill me and then Adam too. As I gape in fear with wide, frightened eyes Michael takes hold of me and forces me up the stairs, the knife pressing into my back. I stumble with each step as he roughly pushes me forward, and then at the top he kicks open the door to my bedroom.

  I glance at the window, still flung wide where I opened it earlier to let in some cooling breeze. Michael removes his grip and for a split second I think of dashing to the window and throwing myself out. But if Michael didn’t grab me first and stop me getting out, with my hands tied behind my back I’d have no way to break my fall and I’d probably kill myself with a broken neck. And if he stopped me, would he just stab me straight away with that deadly looking blade?

  I realise, suddenly, that I left the living room window open downstairs, too. My head must have been all over the place when I left the house, leaving it wide open so a burglar could have got in. Could I make a run for it down the stairs and get outside through the open window? My heart thumps but I don’t think I could do it. Even if I was faster than Michael getting downstairs, which is unlikely, it would be difficult to scramble out of the window, restrained as I am. There’s no way I could succeed.

  No, I realise, the only way I can get through this is to try to survive for as long as I can and hope that someone misses me. I promised Kathy that I’d let her know how I got on. Maybe she’ll try to get in touch when she doesn’t get any message from me. But how long will it be until that happens? And if she doesn’t hear from me all weekend, would she just assume that Adam and I have made up and are spending a loved-up weekend together?

  What about work – if I don’t turn up on Monday morning would they just assume I was ill, or would they call the police and report me missing?

  Will I even be alive on Monday morning?

  Nineteen

  Saturday, 16 June

  I GLANCE AT THE BEDSIDE CLOCK. Nearly half past two. I can see Adam in my mind’s eye. He must have given up on me by now. Michael’s going to kill me here in my own bedroom, and as I die Adam will think I broke my promise and stood him up.

  All these thoughts flash through my mind in an instant, and in the meantime Michael has crossed the room and pulled open the door of the wardrobe. My heart lurches as I see him pull out the cane that was shoved into the back, left there from before, when I used to chastise him with it.

  “You’ve hurt me with this a lot of times in the past, Justine,” he says threateningly, feeling the weight of it in his palm. “It’s your turn now.”

  “Please, Michael, no,” I plead. “I did it to you because you said you wanted it. I don’t want this, Michael, I really don’t. I’m scared. Please let me go. Sir.”

  Inside my head, I curse myself. I was going to throw the cane away. Michael bought it for me to beat him with, and since we split up I never wanted to use it again. I just hadn’t got around to throwing it out. Now Michael has remembered where I always kept it and he’s about to get his own back on me.

  I watch Michael’s eyes darken as I address him as I used to, and he puts the cane down on the floor. Relief floods through me even as my head throbs with the pain of his blow. He’s going to let me go.

  Then I realise I’m wrong. He comes forward and kneels down as he pulls at the button on my cropped jeans, undoing the fly, and starts to strip me. First my jeans come down and then he pulls off my sandals. Then he wrenches my knickers down, baring me to him.

  I see him staring at my exposed sex, feeling more vulnerable than I ever have done before as I tremble with fear and pain, my head still throbbing. And then he stands and towers over me again.

  “This is coming off too,” he says and grabs hold of the neckline of my vest top. With a sharp tug he rips it apart, tearing the fabric.

  He pushes me to the bed, making me lie down on my tummy, my bottom exposed. He manhandles me into the centre of the bed and I feel him grip my ankles and shove my legs far apart. Then as I struggle to no avail against the tape that binds my hands behind my back, he’s fastening my feet to the foot of the bed with some string that he’s taken out of his pocket. He secures my ankles firmly and the string digs painfully into my flesh.

  Then I feel him rip away the tape from my hands and he quickly pulls my arms above my head and ties my smarting wrists together again, using more string to attach them to the bedposts. I’m spread-eagled face down on the bed, turning my face to crane round and see him. With a stab of fear I see him pick up the knife.

  With two deft movements he slices through the material of my vest top at the shoulders, and pulls it away from my body, throwing it on the floor. Then he digs the blade under the straps of my bra. I shrink back as I feel the cold steel of the blade on my skin. I tremble underneath him as he does it; the ease with which he slices the fabric makes me realise just how sharp that knife must be. Then he unhooks the back of the bra and roughly pulls it away from my body, leaving me naked. I see him put down the knife and pick up the cane.

  “Michael, please, don’t do this,” I cry out. “I’m begging you. Sir. Please don’t. Dalmation!”

  “We’re past using safewords now, Justine,” he hisses into my ear. “Now I don’t want to hear another word from you, except to count the strokes. Any more noise and I’ll make it worse for you.” I clamp my mouth shut at his threat. Then he says, “One hundred strokes.” I gasp in fear. A hundred? I’ve withstood thirty strokes from Adam, but a hundred? Oh, please, God give me the strength to withstand this. Please, please don’t make it hurt too much. And let me stay alive long enough for someone to find me and make this nightmare end.

  But the nightmare is only just beginning. The first blow comes hard and fast with a sickeningly loud noise and enough strength to force the air right out of my lungs. “One!” I manage, panting, my mind already reeling from the pain. Michael may not have hit me any harder than the blows I’ve withstood before from Adam, but this has brought home to me the difference between playing with pain and a real-life assault. The difference is fear. All those weeks ago, when I
let Michael tie me up and beat me, and then later with Adam, I thought I’d felt fear mixed in with my desire. Now I know I was wrong. This is real fear, the feeling that’s engulfing me now, the cold, sick gulf of terror that’s threatening to drown me.

  But I hardly have time to process these thoughts as the second blow comes down on my behind. “Two,” I count, tears forming in my eyes, and then Michael hits me again. “Three!”

  Again and again he hits me, the agony spreading through my bottom but accompanied only by a gut-wrenching terror. The desire I’ve felt when I’ve been tied up consensually is completely absent and all I can do is try to focus on withstanding the onslaught and remembering to count. “Fifty,” I cry, registering that I’ve reached the halfway point, then Michael moves his focus and starts to beat the backs of my thighs. I can’t restrain a scream at the force of the pain before I stammer out the next number. He carries on lashing my body without mercy, the cane biting into my legs again and again as the red-hot heat of his blows spreads through my body.

  Finally, the last blow falls. Michael brings it down with all his strength across both of my buttocks. “A hundred!” I gasp, hot tears streaming from my eyes, limp and broken on the bed. I shut my eyes and hope against hope that he gives me a break before he starts to hurt me again.

  Then, to my amazement, he picks up the knife and slices through the string that’s restraining my legs. I tiny fountain of hope springs up inside me. Did I misunderstand him? Does he not want to kill me after all? Is he going to let me go? He crosses to the top of the bed, cutting through the string that’s attaching my wrists to the top of the bed. I stare up at him, heart thumping with adrenaline. But he’s left my hands tied. I lie still, afraid to move.

  “Get up,” he commands me and I struggle to make my trembling limbs obey me. Unsteadily I clamber off the bed and rise to my feet to stand in front of him. I stumble, my backside and legs pounding with pure throbbing agony, but I manage to regain my balance and somehow stay upright. He smiles at my weakness, still holding that deadly-sharp knife. How could I have found him so attractive, not knowing what a monster there was inside him?

  “I think you’ve got something to say to me,” he says. I stare at him blankly. The pain has rendered my brain incapable of working out what he means. After a pause he continues, “You need to thank me.”

  “Oh.” The words stick in my throat but I know I have to force them out. Thanking him for what he’s just done? I could do it when we were playing, but this was for real. But then I don’t have any choice except to do as he tells me, so I make myself say the words. “Thank you. Sir.”

  “You can call me ‘Master’,” he suggests.

  “Thank you, Master,” I manage through gritted teeth.

  “Now, you’re going to suck me,” he tells me. I feel disbelief and bile rises to my throat. I don’t know if I can do this. “I want you to do it nicely, like a good girl. Because if you don’t I’m going to hurt you even worse than before.”

  “Yes, sir. Master,” I hurriedly correct myself, still eyeing the knife.

  “And I want you to swallow it all,” he commands.

  “Yes, Master,” I agree with a heavy heart, ready to subject myself to his will. Then he puts down the knife and puts his hands on my breasts. My heart leaps; he’s unarmed, and although my hands are tied, my legs are free. I could run. Immediately I form a plan. I’m going to have to bite him. He wants me to suck him – and I’ll do as he says to start with. I’ll take him to the edge of climax, and he’ll be so turned on that he’ll start to lose his senses. And then I’ll bite as hard as I can and make a run for it. I don’t have any choice.

  “You’re so beautiful, Justine,” he says as I suppress a shiver of revulsion. “It’s such a shame I have to kill you.”

  And in that moment I abort my hastily-formed plan and in a movement that’s pure reflex, I bring my knee up into his groin as hard as I can. His express statement of his intention to kill me makes me react instinctively and I use all the strength that terror has given to me to hurt him as much as possible. Michael roars with agony and rage and doubles over in pain.

  I only have a split second. I grab the handle of the door with my tied hands, and I’m straight out and bounding down the stairs. I can hear him behind me and I scream shrilly, but I daren’t turn to look, focussing only on getting out of the house. I know I can’t unlock the door in time but I can try the living room window.

  There’s a pounding noise at the front door. “Justine!” I hear a voice outside, then crashing again and again as something slams into the door. Has someone called the police?

  I’m three steps away from the bottom of the stairs when I feel his hand grabbing my shoulder. “No!” he shouts, and again I cry out in terror as I stumble, leaping the last of the steps to reach the foot of the stairs, and I hear an almighty crash. Turning, I see Michael, holding the knife tight in his grip ready to stab, stumble and fall down the steps, letting out an unearthly roar of rage as he tries to reach for me.

  It’s like slow motion as I watch the full length of his body crash face first down on the floor, the hand gripping the knife hitting the ground and plunging into his belly. “Justine!” comes the voice from outside the door and I realise it’s Adam. He’s pounding against the door like a battering ram.

  But all I can do is stare, frozen to the spot with horror, as the blood spreads across the floor and Michael moans in pain, his fingers reaching out as if trying to grasp something. I watch as his eyelids twitch and then close, and he’s still.

  Finally the door bursts open and Adam runs into the house. And as he envelops my shaking body in his arms my eyes are still wide with terror.

  Twenty

  Friday, 22 June

  “THANK YOU,” I HEAR ADAM SAY, and then he closes the front door. He comes back into the room and sits down next to me on the sofa.

  I haven’t stayed in my house again since the day of Michael’s attack. I seem to be permanently installed at Adam’s now, and it’s exactly what I need.

  It’s a drizzly but warm June day, but despite the mildness of the weather I’m wrapped in a thick jumper. Adam puts his arms around me and pulls me close.

  “It’s over, baby,” he tells me softly. “He can’t hurt you now.”

  I turn my face to his chest and the tears start to well in my eyes. The police officer has just left. He came over to bring the news that Michael has died of his injuries. My emotions are a turbulent mixture. Overwhelmed by relief and a sudden sense of freedom – yes, Adam’s right, he can’t hurt me now; if he’d lived, even if he’d been imprisoned I would have been living in fear of his eventual release – I’m also stricken with guilt. Was it my fault, was I partly responsible for driving him to his extreme actions?

  “Oh, Adam,” I sob. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” All I want is to be comforted by his strong arms, held tenderly and warmly in his embrace until all the trauma and pain are finally wiped away by time.

  “I’ll always be here for you, Justine,” he promises.

  As he holds me and I let the tears flow, I remember how he held me like this as Michael lay bleeding on the floor of my house. He ran upstairs to fetch the duvet, gently arranging it over me, and he cradled me as I trembled on the sofa. I couldn’t sit – Michael had hurt me too much with the force of his blows. I’d had to lie down until the police and ambulance arrived. They took both Michael and I back to the Radcliffe hospital and this time, they only needed to keep me in overnight. Despite the pain I’d suffered, both through the beating and the blow to my head, there was no lasting damage; although the bruises were livid and purple and they’re still healing now.

  Michael never left the hospital.

  “I just feel like I drove him to it,” I whisper into Adam’s chest. “I didn’t give him any warning that I was going to end it with him. And then I ignored him when he got in touch.”

  Adam pulls away so he can look deep into my eyes. “I won’t listen to you talk li
ke that,” he says, a deadly serious look on his face. “People finish relationships all the time, Justine. It doesn’t give anyone the right to kidnap and torture people and threaten to kill them. He was a complete lunatic and you have nothing to reproach yourself for.”

  I nod weakly.

  “Understand?” he demands.

  “Yes, I understand,” I agree, giving him a wan smile.

  He hugs me again and I sink gratefully into his embrace.

  Thank God for Matt, I think as I relax into Adam’s arms. I had no idea that when Kathy was with me, persuading me to eat some lunch and make myself look presentable, Adam was with her younger brother. I’d thought that there was no way Adam would see my Facebook post. But Matt is one of my Facebook friends so he saw what I’d written, and told Adam about my post telling Kathy that I’d definitely keep my date, to talk things over after that awful night with Natasha.