by Anita Gray
He points out, and I know what he's gesturing at—I've been trussed up in this room many times before. Unfolding myself from the floor, I get up and walk across the room, stopping in the corner. Breathe. Focus. Closing my eyes and shakily reaching up, I grab two sets of chains that are fixed to the ceiling. The metal is cold in my palms, but the room is too warm, creating a mist of sweat down my spine. I feel like I can't breathe.
A rustling sound by the bed draws my attention, wood clanging against wood. I peer back through scraps of hair, immediately wishing I didn't—he's choosing his weapon.
“Podgotovsja!” Maksim yells for me to prepare once he's behind me, like he usually does.
I cower, bracing myself, then he whips me senseless with a sjambok, an African cattle whip, Wa-tch! Each assault blazes through my mind like red flashes of light.
Screams get caught in my throat, my body jerking back and forth against his attack.
Wa-tch!
Wa-tch!
It goes on for what feels like hours.
My back arches and my flesh splits open, hot blood slithering down my spine and soaking the waist of my trousers.
Wa-tch!
Wa-tch!
By the time he's finished, I'm in such a strange zone in my mind that I can't really see anything. I feel like a shell of a person, the old Blaire—the Blaire before Charlie.
Charlie... Fuck! Why does thinking about him make me want to cry?
I break into sobs, and Maksim punches me. Holding my neck in one hand, swinging with his other, *THUMP* he knocks my head back; blacks my left eye. Blood trickles down my cheek, over the throbbing where he slapped me.
No pain, I tell myself, you can't feel anything.
While I'm a messy, lifeless pile on the floor—I don't even know how I got here—he cuts me out of my trousers and my pants.
“Awh!” I wince in agony as he snaps my bra open and hauls it down my arms, tossing it across the room.
“On the bed,” he commands, panting with anger, “head down. Ass in the air.”
Not registering what's going to happen, I crawl to my master's command like a cat, from the floor, up the side of the bed, until I'm in the middle with my hands and knees sinking into the mattress.
The night gets so dark with punishments, Maksim doing fucking awful things to me. Things I can't even bring myself to think about.
The sound of buttons clanging against the wooden floors. He's undressing, dropping his shirt, and then his trousers. The bed dips at my feet, almost knocking me off balance. Large, cold hands on my hips; nails digging into my flesh with hungry pursuit.
“Open your legs,” Maksim says. He's breathing so hard I know he's excited, warm air blowing up my back.
Shivering, I do as I'm told, my ankles twisted inward because I'm nervous. He pushes against the low of my back, forcing me to arch, shoving my face in the sheets. They smell like musky man sweat.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Don't think.
It's so hard not to. Nausea rises through me when I feel he's parting my ass cheeks with callous hands, saying, “That Latin fuck is lucky, testing my goods before I have.”
A dripping, spitting sound. It makes me retch. The head of his cock is wet, I feel as he smears it against my anus, urging the tip in. My insides churn and now I'm silently crying my heart out, struggling to mentally will away what's happening.
He's going to fuck my ass and he's not even preparing me. How can I block that out?
A powerful thrust, he's roaring with dark passion, and then he's wedged right inside me, causing me to spew up all over the pillows and all over my hands.
The smell is vile; acidic and...
I heave again, my insides burning: my throat, my ass muscles. It's too much. I feel too full.
“Show me your bracelet, my little pet,” Maksim's voice is stark and enraged, evil lust coming off him in waves. “Show it to me!”
I whimper, terrified out of my mind, then I brace myself up on one elbow and reach back to show him my bracelet.
Long fingers curl around my wrist and pull my arm back some more.
“Aargh!” I scream so hard as he bites me, his teeth sinking into my wrist.
He kisses the bite mark after—I hiss. It's so sore—and then he licks over each puncture with the tilt of his tongue. “Every time you look at this bracelet, you will think of me—this scar will make you.”
Letting go of my wrist, he shifts on his knees, causing his cock to shift inside my ass. My stomach rolls. I vomit again, retching so hard that my belly pangs in pain.
I think I mentally pass out from here. It's just too much.
I vaguely hear Maksim ask if I want him to stop, and I tell him with weak effort, “No, cэp Maksim.” I wouldn't dare say anything else.
“Now that your mind is frail and open,” he lies over my back, crushing me, and says against my ear in a head drunk voice, “you will succumb to my orders.” Pulling out halfway, he tells me to prepare, and then plunges back in me, balls deep, tearing me apart. “You will not think about Charlie anymore, my little pet.”
Out, and back in with viciousness, he stretches me open.
I'm crying in agony through closed teeth. He’s groaning with rawness, the sound pulsing through my chest.
“You will not speak to him! or anyone else without my permission. You'll not look at another man...” the rules are never ending, as is his cruelty. “I am the only man you want.”
Grabbing a hand full of my hair, he yanks my head back as he sits on his knees and fucks me with all he has, skin slapping against skin, him pounding my ass.
My body is shaking uncontrollably with cold sweat. I scream in agony every time he practically hits my stomach, until he cums violently, his cock getting longer and thicker, emptying inside me.
He doesn't beckon my arousal, not once—there's nothing hot about this. I'm as dry as a bone, disgusted with what he's doing to me, whimpering in pity for myself.
“That was good,” he drawls, “worth the wait.”
Curling his fingers around his cock, he slowly pulls all the way out of me. Warm juices slither down my inner thighs, over my knees, dripping on the bed.
Gasping with relief that it's over, I drop on the bed, but I only get a moment's rest before he continues his torture.
He climbs off the bed, causing me to bounce up and down on the mattress, and picks up a different whip from the floor-
Wa-tch!
-He beats me into a numb state, yelling with zeal that I'm his. “You will always be mine, my little pet!”
I don't even know how many times he sodomizes me. It's a pattern. He cums, stops for a while to whip me on the bed, then he fucks me again.
By morning, I’m empty that when he tells me I can go home and have the week off, I find my keys on the floor amid my clothes and leave the house naked, bar my bracelet. I fucking well earned this.
It's freezing outside, a typical English morning with a burning pink sunrise and silver frost on the trees. My breath mists the air. My nipples are bruised and hard like bullets—he must have pinched me. I don't remember.
The stony driveway crunches against the soles of my feet, but still, I can't feel a thing.
There's a blanket in the boot of my car, so I get it out to wrap myself up, and then I drive to my apartment.
London is before my very eyes, but I don't see a thing. I'm lost in my mind, trying to focus on anything other than what Maksim has just done to me. It's not as if he hasn't beaten me like that before, but last night felt different. It felt like a different kind of conditioning. Maybe because he's never had penetrative sex with me before.
Pulling into the underground car park, I get out of my car and walk lifelessly into the elevator, and then into my apartment. I drop the bloody blanket on the floor by the front door and patter into my bedroom, heading for the en-suite bathroom.
I'm not in any sort of pain until I get in the shower. The water isn't too hot but the welts on my back ar
e on fire, so sore it's almost too much to bear.
While I wince in agony against the soap, I don't cry. I don't do anything. I simply get clean of semen and blood and Maksim's saliva, and crawl into bed without drying myself. I should clean up the bite mark on my arm with some vodka and bandage it up, but I can't will myself to move.
I sleep for as long as I can, hoping that the next time I see Maksim, he won't be so mad at me.
30
The following week passes in agonizing, numb slow motion.
I wake the next morning, after Maksim beat the shit out of me and sexually violated me for the first time, and I'm in agony. My back is split and crusty with scabs, my hips ache from being banged so hard, and my arm is throbbing, oozing with clear fluid.
I manage to climb out of bed and hobble to the kitchen so I can thoroughly clean the bite mark. I must before it gets infected.
Slumping against the kitchen countertop, I grab a bottle of vodka from the side and twist off the cap, keeping all thoughts at bay—I'm in no right frame of mind to be thinking. I hold out my wounded arm over the sink, shut my eyes, and I pour.
“Aargh!” I scream my heart out, tipping up the bottle to stop the cold, burning liquid from touching my skin. I'm trembling from head to toe, cold sweat clinging to my flesh. My arm feels like it's double the size because it's so swollen and the puncture marks burn like a bitch.
I pour again and scream, again and scream.
By the time the bottle is empty, the wound is throbbing.
Taking deep, steady breaths, fighting not to pass out, I put down the bottle on the countertop and get the medical kit out of the drawer to wrap up the wound, ensuring it's not too tight nor too lose.
I roll the bandage around my arm with caution, wincing at the pressure, the smell of the elastic material reminding me of something clinical.
Done.
I breathe out.
It feels better already, though I'm dizzy from the pain and my mouth is watering like crazy.
I take a moment, holding my dizzy head, trying not to look at the bright ball of fire that is the sun streaming up the sky. I've got such a headache.
Pouring myself a glass of water, I try for a sip but my stomach rolls with queasiness. I don't think I've ever felt such a vast collection of overwhelming sensations in one sitting before.
Needing to rest, I grab my phone from the kitchen side, for if Maksim calls, and I crawl back into bed, my mind still empty of thoughts.
I sleep the day away, occasionally stirring to screams that I recognize as my own; screams that wrack my body with panic and pain. I don't remember any dreams, thankfully—I can't deal with anything more fucking with my head right now. I need to get over what Maksim has done to me.
It's midday when I open my eyes again, the sun burning high in the sky, streaming in. Every limb I have feels heavy and tight and my ass is so sore it's almost unbearable.
There's a text message on my phone from James. He wants to know why I didn't stay with Charlie; wants to know if I'm alright, why I'm not working. I can't even manage a smile about the fact that he cares. I'm too empty.
Pushing the duvet back so I can get up, I grimace, my hips feeling like they've ceased up. When is the pain going to end?
In my grasp, the sheets are wet and heavy. I glance over my bed. The white sheets are covered in streaks of dark red blood. My back must've been bleeding while I slept.
The notion doesn't bother me. Nothing seems to be bothering me. Yeah I'm in pain, and that's overwhelming, but inside, I'm so... numb. It's been a long, long time since Maksim gave me a hiding like that, and I'd usually be sad with guilt for pissing him off so furiously, but not this time. This time I'm just emotionally numb.
My throat is raw. I limp to the kitchen for some water, which doesn't make me feel sick this time. I also try to eat a bowl of cereal, barely registering the fact that there's fresh milk and food in the fridge. Hovering over the bowl, elbows on the countertop, I manage a few mouthfuls of cornflakes but I'm just not hungry. I'm in too much pain to do anything other than sleep.
I use the toilet, heaving at the sight of blood on the tissue, then I slip back into bed and rest for two days without showering.
Day five: the bite mark on my arm is scabbing over. I can feel the scabs rubbing against the bandage every time I move. Lying in bed, I unwind the bandage to let the wound air so it can heal better. I drop the bandage on the floor. Twenty puncture marks I count on my forearm, each one red around the edges and a bit itchy. I try my best not to scratch the wound but it's difficult, like an itch you can't quite reach.
Slugging it out of bed, I use the toilet and manage a full bowl of cereal today, though only because I need to eat—I need to regain my strength if I'm to heal—then I'm back in bed.
Day six: I attempt a shower but the welts and cuts on my body are so sore that even I can't bear the pain. I turn off the faucet, then I shrug into a pair of sports shorts and a t-shirt, and I curl up on the couch, watching the sun rise over London with burning orange rays.
Still, I feel nothing. It's so strange. I don't know what's happened to me. It's like, before this moment I'm in right now, nothing exists.
I float in and out of a dark slumber.
Day seven: I endeavor the gym but I can barely make it up the stairs. With one hand, my mobile in my other, I grip the banister so hard that my knuckles turn white, but every step I take is like walking Mount Everest.
Another step and another step. I'm halfway up the staircase now, but I just can't make the rest.
I struggle for another step, fighting with lower body force, and a wound on my back splits.
“Aargh!” I scream through closed teeth, and finally, I break down.
I can't take this numb feeling anymore. I can't stand the pain anymore.
Sliding down the wall, I sit here on the stairs, cradling my mobile, wondering why I don't feel anything. Wondering why I'm so empty. I want to cry but I can't.
Is this a result of Maksim or Charlie?
Charlie...
“Fuck!” I scream so loud that I can feel my voice in the atmosphere. I thrash my fingers into my hair and pull at the strands, inflicting my own pain.
It's the first time I've thought of him since... since...
He shouldn't have sent me home early—a week I could have been with him is a week I've been in pain. He shouldn't have given me this damn bracelet. All of this, the pain and the vacancy in my chest, it's all his fault.
Tears spill down my cheeks, warm tears, and a rush of emotions hit me like a dam has been smashed open.
I don't want to live like this anymore. I don't want Maksim to hurt me anymore. I just want to find some peace.
I felt great peace while living with Charlie, after the first night with him, of course. But even then, he didn't hurt me. It was all mental. I miss waking up to his little notes in the kitchen, saying, breakfast is in the oven. I miss knowing he'll be in the gym. I miss that excitement I eventually felt when I knew we'd be having dinner together. I miss... I miss him.
My heart crushing, I scroll through my mobile for his number.
Decena.
The air gets caught in my throat. Tears drip on the screen, making his name look fuzzy. Wiping the tears off with my thumb, I read his number from back to front, storing it in my memory. I delete the name Decena and replace it with Charlie.
Charlie
I can't explain it, but just seeing his name makes me feel better. My chest tightens—no, squeezes, and a strong sense of contentment comes over me. I cannot even feel the pain anymore.
I miss him. I miss him too much.
Before I know it, I'm dialing his number, willing him to pick up because the ringer goes on and on. It takes a moment to register that he's still in England—I can tell by the ringtone—and another moment to wonder why. He said the only reason he was here was for me, and he sent me home, so why hasn't he returned to Mexico?
The ringer dies off but I call him again, and
then again. I won't give up until I've spoken to him.
“Pick up,” I whisper, blood roaring in my ears. “Please pick up.”
“What?” he answers snappily on the sixth call, and my stomach sinks.
“Charlie,” I say softly, “it's-it's Blaire.”
“Shit, I'm sorry, baby,” his voice softens now, the deeper notes melting my bones. “I was expecting a call from someone else.”
“Oh... I-well... Shall I call back later or something?”
“No!” he sounds horrified that I'd even ask. “You can call me whenever you want. I've told you that.”
I let out a purifying breath of relief, my nose tickling with more tears. It's so good to hear his voice, and it's so good to know I can still contact him whenever I want.
He tells someone to leave the room, then I hear a heavy door shut.
“You took your time, didn't you?” he says. “I texted you a week ago.”
Though it hurts stretching out the tight, crusty skin on my back, I lean over with my elbows on my knees and shut my eyes, imagining I'm with him.
“I didn't read your text,” I say honestly.
“Why?”
“I...” Pausing, I wonder if I should tell him that I was trying to move on from him, but then I chicken out. “I don't know.”
“You don't know?” he snaps, aghast. “I knew I should've called you or just come over to your place.” There's a few seconds of silence from him, and I imagine he's thinking hard about something. “So, if you're not calling about my message, then-”
“What did it say, Charlie?” I ask, wishing I read it now. I should have kept it too, and then I could have looked over it when I felt numb and empty like I did only moments ago. It could have been my salvation.
“I wanted to see if you were okay,” he says, his voice soft like silk. “And I wanted to tell you that I'm in love with you, Blaire. So in love with you that I can't think of anything else since I sent you home.”
I'm wordless, choking up, barely tolerating the hit of his confession.
“You mean everything to me,” he says desperately. “I fucking miss you—I want you back.”