She bends over as she holds my hands in hers. “You're home early. You run away again?” she asks.
“Yes,” I answer.
“The kids teasing you?”
“Y-yes.”
She shakes her head sadly. “You're not like them, Sam. You'll always be different. Like me. This world is rotten. You know, I'd leave it if it wasn't for you. I'd just go to sleep and never wake up. But you're smarter than them. You're faster. Your family is important. And they're threatened by that. So they look for weakness. But I'm gonna protect you. You'll see. Even your dad is like them. Your brother. I'm gonna keep you safe from these monsters.”
The door flies open. “Dammit Sam. What's this mess? I told you to leave your mother alone. She needs rest.”
“He can stay here with me.”
“And watch you cry all day? No, Gloria, rest and when you can manage to stay out of bed for more than five minutes at a time, you can rejoin the world.”
“You're so cruel,” she cries.
“Here we go again. The world is cruel. Everyone hates you. You're turning him into you and I won't have it.”
“You hate me,” she cries.
“Don't pull that,” dad says. “I'm here, aren't I?”
“You only care about money. That's all you care about!”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, you're a mess.”
Dad yanks me by the shoulders and pulls me out of the room, closing the door to the sound of her cries.
He crouches down to me. “You wanna be like that?” he asks, pointing at their bedroom door.
I don't know what to say. She is the only person who is nice to me. But no one wants to be locked alone in a room all day. Saying no feels like I'm turning on her.
“Well, trust me, you don't. So go wash up and do your homework.” He gives me a shove and a slap on the bum, sending me on my way.
“Christ this place is a mess,” he murmurs to himself, picking up the leftovers and addressing the spilt milk I left behind.
It's only been one nightfall since he last visited. During that nightfall, I had the best sleep I have had in as long as I can remember. With a full belly and wrapped in a cozy blanket, I watched as dusk turned to moonlight. The things the man did to me would flash in my mind, but the feeling it elicited was confounding. I didn't want to play with myself when he left, but my body sang for it. I meant it when I said stop, but I didn't think he would. He's my tormentor. My captor. My words shouldn't matter to him, and yet there are times when he seems to care about my needs. When he did stop, I realized I'm not sure I ever wanted him to. He started a physical cascade that needed to be realized. Now, my stomach knots at the thought of him spreading my legs, fondling my breasts, rubbing my body with his wet, soapy hands. But that sickening feeling, it links to something deeper—the feeling of my body tingling, betraying me, betraying what I know is right.
That sense of the forbidden. The thing I sought when I'd close my eyes while Carter was inside of me. I'd imagine scenarios of doing the wrong thing. Letting a man who I had just met take me without asking. That secret, it's what allowed me to enjoy sex with my sweet Carter at all. Now that desire is still a secret, but it's a living one.
I loathe myself for thinking of my captor's torso, lean with muscle, glistening with beads of sweat. How his scent, distinctly his, ignited something animal in me. It lingered on me so that when I wrapped myself in the blanket, it rose to my nose as I drifted into a slumber.
Even in my dreams he stalked me—a nightmare mixed with a fantasy as he fucked me at knife point, and I woke up to my hand fondling myself again. I came. Again. Then I slept peacefully the rest of the night.
I disgust myself. My weak will. How I have traded sexual acts for food and fabric. I used to yearn to see my family again, but now I fear the day I see them. They won't be getting Vesp back. They'll be getting back a whore who played with herself after a masked stranger came on her face and chest.
Only weeks have passed and I find myself thinking more about this man than Carter. Carter's become a distant dream now. An idea of a person I will never see again. He's home. I can't even bring myself to think of Johnny. It hurts too much. My world now revolves around a person I don't know. Every basic need I have is at his whim. It's easier to think of him than the world I have left behind.
I listen to the man's footsteps upstairs. If only everyone else could have the privilege of hearing their god above them. I haven't had a real conversation in weeks and he only speaks to me to taunt me during sex. Still, I find myself now looking forward to his company, whatever it brings. He doesn't hurt me. Strike me. Torture me. He barters. He makes deals. Sometimes it feels like a game. I'll take anything to pass the days in this dim, damp prison. The solitude is just another torment.
When the door to the basement opens, all those feelings of peace I have with him fly out the window. I still don't trust him, and my fight or flight response always kicks in first. Only when I know the reasons for his visit can I put the panic at ease.
I come to my feet, the shackle at my ankle clanking. That area is always tender. I wonder if removing the shackle is up for negotiation.
The wood creaks with each of his steps. Slow. Confident. He's come down here silently before, so the cadence of his steps is intentional. It's like, even with his descent into my prison, he's trying to play with my mind. Today, he isn't shirtless, but his t-shirt and jeans are weathered. He must work in construction or utilities. This is the only thing I have been able to gather about his identity thus far.
I use the blanket to shroud myself. Before I was exposed. Perpetually open to him. Nothing has changed, but the blanket gives me the illusion of autonomy.
He walks past me, takes my waste bucket out of the basement and returns.
Then he approaches me and pulls the blanket off of me. I fight, tugging one end of it.
“You said it was mine!” I shout.
He gives it another good yank and throws it to the floor behind me, signaling that this blanket has one purpose, and it is not to shield myself from his gaze.
The sea-hued eyes glare back at me. I try to study them, try to imagine what's under there, but so much of his face is shrouded in black. This man has taken everything from me and I don't even know what he looks like. I wonder if that's a good thing. That maybe there's a chance he'll let me go if I can't ID him.
He walks up to me, slips his hand around the small of my back and pulls me close. He hasn't presented me with anything. Maybe he's just here to take.
He runs his hand up my back and yanks my hair, exposing my neck. He dips his nose to my collarbone and inhales deeply. He's already aroused, pressing his hips against me so I feel what's to come.
“I watched you play with your cunt yesterday, Vesp,” he says menacingly. He swallows and takes a deep breath as he lightly presses his lips against shell of my ear. “I know your secret now. You're a pretty little angel on the outside. But inside…” He shudders. “Inside you're a whore who likes it when I spray my cum all over your tits.”
Those words hurt worse than the things he did to me physically. In that moment, when I did that shameful act, I thought I was alone. Even then I felt dirty. But I thought I at least had that sliver of dignity left.
He has stripped me of everything. Not just the life I had, but the basic right of privacy. With the things he says, sometimes I wonder if he can read my mind. Maybe there is nothing left of me that is my own.
It enrages me. More so than I have felt since I arrived here. I have been starved and isolated into compliance. Tuned into a pet. But the very human feeling of embarrassment is enough to spark a fire and bring back Vesper Rivers.
Although I’m quivering inside, I put on a brave face hoping to regain at least a smidgen of that dignity he stole. “What did you bring me today?” I ask smugly. He yanks my hair a little harder to get a better look at my face. His eyes wander along my features, revealing his confusion to my response. “Let me be clear: anything you think you se
e is just me trying to get things from you. You don't even have the balls to show your face or speak to me. You're just the boogeyman. You're not even a person. None of this is real,” I snarl. “The only way you can get a girl to suck you off is to steal her and bribe her. You're a pathetic little peeping tom.” As those last words escape, I gasp in fear. When the dark pupils overtake the clarity of his eyes, I know I have poked a beast.
He takes one jagged breath before I find myself breathless, being driven against a cold, hard wall behind me. I gasp for the air that was purged from my lungs while I jerk away from his grip. I recoil and writhe, trying to escape, but he grips my hair tighter. A cold blade is pressing against my neck. It hurts, and for the first time in a while, I am genuinely terrified. Not just the constant uncertainty and fear that simmers in the background, but a heart-pounding, breathless fear.
“You want to play this fucking game, Vesp? You want to lie to my fucking face? I've given you choices. I've been easy on you, but now let me be clear: I am going to use your body in every fucking way I can imagine. You're gonna scream for me. You're gonna beg me to fuck you in every hole. Because that's who you are, Vesp. The gifts are there to make it easier for you to come to terms with it. But it's inevitable. You have no control over it, just like you have no control over the fact that you need air or water. I broke into your house and fucked you while your boyfriend was tied up like a little bitch and you were in your own little fucked up slice of heaven. I have news for you, Vesp. When you're fucked up like me—like that—heaven and hell aren't very different.”
It's the most he's ever said to me at once, his chest vibrating against mine with every sharp word, his voice as biting as shards of glass. Despite our discord, our heaving chests move in unison. His solid cock—either not affected or even motivated by his anger—digs into my stomach.
His eyes lose their intensity, as if he's even shocked by his little diatribe. He's made a point not to say much to me like it's some rule he's created and I think he just broke it. He steps back and thrusts away from me. I reach down and hiss at the pain in my ankle. The tender skin broke when he pushed me and it burns like hell. He glimpses down at me wincing and walks over to me with the knife still in his hand. I recoil from him, still fearing that this could be the end. He kneels and I observe him as he pulls a key out of his pocket and unlatches the leg. A thin trail of blood runs down over the side of my foot.
I haven't had that freedom since he put me down here. My ankle burns from the cool air that instantly rushes the wound, but it also feels lighter having lost the heavy collar. I think about making a run for it, but this guy is freakishly strong and fast. He's thrown and carried me like a rag doll. It's better to earn his trust so I can find a better opening if I survive the next few moments.
He doesn't say a word but instead, tugs off his shirt, his chest still rising and falling, his uneven breaths filling the silence of the basement. There's no negotiating tonight. I don't have any fight left. They call it fight or flight, but there's another option, when the fear is so paralyzing that you submit. In fact, I'm even somewhat grateful that after the harsh reminder of his power, through his own anger, he let me relieve the pain in my ankle. The masked man unbuttons his jeans and lets them fall to the ground. His athletic thighs are peppered with hair that trails up to his cock which stands tall, undeterred by any previous protestations.
He comes at me, white-knuckling the long blade. I stiffen in anticipation, and he throws me over his shoulder, like a possession. I am weightless and inconsequential in his grip. He carries me past a corner I could never reach with my chain, to another part of the basement, full of tools and a work table. Thoughts of torture cross my mind and I scream, kicking and flailing.
“Please don't hurt me. I'll do whatever you want.” He lowers me to my feet and I make a run for it, but he wraps me by the waist in seconds. He heaves as he throws me at the steel work table, causing a loud thud, and bends me face down against the frigid surface.
I wriggle underneath him, but he's like a boulder. He presses my cheek against the table and kicks my legs open.
He yanks my arms behind me and itchy twine wraps around my wrists.
“Remember this?” he asks hoarsely as he works on tying my hands.
My tears fall on the metallic surface below me, the glinting knife rests a foot away from my face. Will it be the last thing I see? He reaches over with the long strip of twine and wraps it around my nape so that if I pull with my hands, I tighten the grip around my neck.
“I'm sorry,” I plead. “It's true, okay? I was embarrassed. What am I supposed to say? That I like it? That makes me fucked up.”
But he's in some sort of rage-induced trance as he completes the intricate bindings.
“You can fuck me all you want, just please don't kill me. Please.”
He tugs on the twine connecting my hands and neck so that I straighten enough for him to put his lips against my ear. “Shut the fuck up, Vesp,” he whispers.
“Oh god,” I cry.
He slides his other hand over my ass and squeezes viciously. I let out a sharp cry. Then he slaps the same spot, a distinct clap filling the air. A singeing pain throbs on the spot. He thrusts his hips violently against me, teasing his rigid cock against my ass and gripping the twine like a horse’s reins.
“I can get what I want in many ways. Let me remind you of that.”
He slips a couple of fingers into me and back out, slipping them along my slit. It's too easy. I hate that I don't clench and dry up. He's a monster, he's wicked. But his warm upper body presses against my back and contrasts the cool air of the basement. His heart thuds like mine. He's something—someone—other than the barren, unforgiving, concrete shell that is usually my only company.
He grabs the knife and I whimper as he reaches around to run the sharp tip along my collarbone, then down to my breasts. I try to suck in and make space between me and the blade, but it's useless as he presses the point against the tip of one of my nipples, sending waves of heat and fear down my stomach and to my clit. He runs it down my stomach, and inner thigh, stopping there to lightly drag the blade over my femoral artery. He knows I am a nurse, that I understand the message this sends.
My lips purse as salty tears run over them. Please sits just below the surface, but I know it won't make a difference. Without a word from me, he slams the knife back down on the table, so loudly I jump. Then my shoulders relax a bit with the immediate threat being gone.
“Now, tell me, Vesp. Tell me how your pussy feels,” he commands.
I'm hyperventilating so hard it's difficult to get any words out. He gives the twine a sharp tug that pinches at the soft skin of my neck.
I open my mouth, but the words stubbornly won't come out. They squeeze my throat, my mind strangling the body, fighting the disloyalty it displays every time this man touches me.
He bends me over the table again, the icy surface shocking my skin. His warm, soft tongue and lips are just as terrifying a weapon as the knife when they make a slave out of me with no threat. I moan and pucker my hips against the rhythmic lapping and sucking of his tongue. My mind and body begin to melt into one, the body snuffing out the protests of the mind. There is so little good down here. So few moments of pleasantness or pleasure. Of contact. Warmth. Excitement. This is one of them. It's wrong. It's weak minded. But my mind and body are weary. They just want to remember what it was like to feel at peace and not waging a constant battle.
So I let myself slip into a state of complete arousal. Not just passively accepting his mouth, but actively enjoying its adventures. And just when I do, proof I am certain, that he can in fact peep into my mind: he stops and pulls me halfway up.
“Tell me how it feels.”
My pride awakens, strapping in for another fight. It's one thing to silently accept that pleasure. To play with myself during a dream or let myself enjoy his tongue inside of me. It's another to say it. It's the ultimate act of voyeurism, to force himself to hear my feeli
ngs, my secret thoughts.
My pussy throbs, again being close to the highest of pleasure during a time when I am at my lowest. But I can't.
He lets go of the rope suddenly, so that I fall forward onto the table. The soft sound of his footsteps head away from me. He's going to leave me here, bound, for I don't know how long. So that I can't even relieve myself of the heat that has built between my legs.
I turn my face towards him. His bare, muscled back and ass are shaded by the shadows of the dark space. The shiny blade extends from his hand, and for a moment he looks like an ancient warrior. “Wait! Wait! Please don't leave.”
He keeps walking, about to approach the corner and disappear.
“It—it feels good. It feels so good,” I call out through a tense throat. My stomach twists in a mixture of arousal and humiliation. He stops, but he doesn't turn back.
“My pussy is throbbing. It feels like—like I'm hot and there's a cool wave coming my way and it's just right there…right about to crash over me. But I need you to do it. Your lips and mouth…I did almost come that night in my house. It scared me. I used to think about you. I didn't know it was you. But you saw me at the library, right? And I thought you had the most incredible eyes. And I thought of looking into them instead when I fucked Carter. I think you're a sick fuck. But maybe that's irrelevant because I'm here, and…” I almost chuckle through my stuffy voice.
Before I can finish, he's striding towards me. He yanks me up to my feet by the twine and spins me, so that I'm face to face with those piercing eyes.
“I want to see you,” I mutter.
He shakes his head, his eyes colder than the metal table edging into my ass.
He grips his cock in one of his hands. Like him, it is unforgiving and brutal as it savagely burrows into me. I let out a cry from deep within as he pistons his hips. I'm grateful that my arms are tied, because if they weren't I'd wrap them around this man who is filling me—the ultimate betrayal to everything I ever thought of myself. But my legs are free, and without seeking my permission, one wraps around his warm bare leg. His slick chest slips against my breasts as he grinds against me.
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