Demon Mine

by Marina Simcoe

  I felt a light brush of gloved fingers sweeping my tangled hair from the back of my neck. I expected it to happen; the guard needed access to the buttons on the back of my dress, but the lightness and deliberateness of the touch came unexpected and caught my attention.

  I’d gone through it many times by now but never paid any particular attention to the process. Maybe my newfound calmness freed the space for other feelings and sensations in my mind now. I didn’t know. I also wasn’t sure if I liked feeling anything at all. I was looking forward to feeling nothing, to go through tonight in this blissful fog of emptiness.

  His hands slid downwards as he began to unbutton the dress, one big ugly metal button at a time, making sure to skim lightly over the skin along my spine. The touches were light, barely there. And the sensations that they caused spread along my back in tiny shivers, prickling my skin. I trembled, despite the warm air.

  The buttons ran along the whole length of the grey, sleeveless dress – the only clothing I ever got to wear here – with the last one positioned right below my butt.

  He opened them all slowly, one by one, and traced the line of my spine with his fingers all the way down my back, along the line between my buttocks and, finally, along the back of my inner thighs.

  My breathing turned shallow and more rapid. I felt the palms of his hands on my shoulders before they pushed the dress down my arms and off me. It took me a few seconds to realize that his touches disappeared for now and that I was feeling lightheaded already and slightly disoriented.

  Stubbornly clinging to the passing feeling of numbness with desperate determination, I stepped over the threshold and into the arena.

  I knew that they – the audience – were to my left and deliberately avoided looking at them as I headed straight to the polished wood cross that was erected in the middle of the spacious room. It was a large cross in the shape of the letter “X”. A BDSM cross, I imagined, not that I ever saw one before I got here. I kept my eyes fixed on the cross and stepped up onto the small wooden platform where the cross was mounted then firmly closed my eyes before turning to face the audience.

  I refused to look at them, refused to acknowledge their presence in any way. I had spent weeks, maybe months, trying to reason with them. I had pleaded with them, tried to get them to talk to me and got less reaction than I would have from blocks of granite. Now, I made sure to pay zero attention to them.

  It was a rather pathetic attempt at revenge on my part, especially since I was pretty sure that they didn’t care either way. In fact, I had a feeling that my exaggerated indifference was actually preferred by them to my emotional outbursts.

  They, unlike the guards, didn’t wear masks or uniforms, and I didn’t want to admit to myself that their cold impassive faces made me feel even more alone in this place than the masks.

  With my eyes closed, I didn’t see him, but I felt him step in front of me. I realized that he was the same guard who removed my dress when he brushed the palms of his hands in the same gentle and deliberate way along both sides of my ribcage. He locked the steel silk-padded belt around my waist, securing me to the middle of the cross.

  He had traded his leather gloves for silk velvet ones, and his light touch felt even more like a caress now. He ran his hands down one of my legs as he lowered himself into a crouch at my feet, attaching both of my legs to the cross by fastening the steel cuffs, also padded and lined with silk, to each of my ankles.

  He kept his palms pressed lightly against the sides of my other leg as he rose to his feet, waking long-forgotten sensations on my skin along the way, and stopped short of actually touching between my thighs. Instead his hands moved to my hips and slid up my sides, brushing the tips of my nipples with his thumbs. He made me lift my arms above my head and enclosed my wrists into the padded handcuffs at the top ends of the cross.

  Through no will of my own, I was slowly sliding into some kind of a trance, created by the dance of his hands on my body as they moved to the rhythm of a music that only he could hear.

  Oh, he was good! They all were! Sooner or later, they all got what they wanted from me. Always. Night after night. The bitter feeling of resentment rose inside of me, clearing the fragile haze I was in, and I let it build.

  I had no business feeling any pleasure from his touch. I never asked for his hands on me. I never asked to be here in the first place. I didn’t want it…

  “Stay with me. You have to. Or they’ll kill you.”

  It was said in a soft, barely audible whisper, and it took me a moment to realize that somebody was talking to me. He was talking to me.

  I hadn’t heard a word from anyone in months!

  My eyes flew open to make sure that I didn’t dream it up somehow. Did I start hearing voices in my head?

  He was still in front of me, slightly closer than usual, with his hands up at my wrists, slowly locking the cuffs in place. Standing on the platform, I was at eye level with him as he stood on the floor below, so the first thing I saw were his eyes through the slits of the mask.

  They were the pale blue colour of steel – cold like everything else in this place – and staring at me with unwavering intensity.

  A fleeting thought passed through my head that these eyes could be the brilliant blue colour of the sky if I had a chance to see them under the summer sun. I could almost imagine the vivid blue colour saturating the irises. The image was mesmerizing…

  Was I literally getting lost in his eyes? Was I losing my mind again? It wasn’t even a friendly look that he was giving me as far as I could tell. Yet, seeing his eyes and hearing him talk made me recognize that there was an actual person hidden behind the mask. Until now, I tended to think of them only as animated armor suits.

  With my wrists now firmly secured in the cuffs, he stepped behind the cross, and the spell was broken. I closed my eyes quickly, as I was again face-to-face with the audience now that he no longer blocked the view.

  The fact that he spoke to me hit me with full force. He had looked at me – directly at me – and talked to me! Did I finally get through to one of them?

  There were times since I got here when I wondered if they could speak at all or if they were just machines - robots - instead of thinking, talking individuals. Yet, he did speak to me just a moment ago! What could it mean now? I felt a wave of nervous excitement rushing through me. Would he talk to me again later? Would he finally answer any of my questions? Would he explain why the hell I was here and when, if ever, I could go home? Oh, my God! Now that I thought about it, I had so many questions!

  Engrossed into the chaos of my thoughts, I almost forgot where I was. His hands squeezed my hips, rather tightly, from behind and brought me back to reality. I was so preoccupied with the fact that he spoke to me that I hadn’t paid any attention to what he said. Stay with me. You have to. Or they’ll kill you.

  I didn’t need to guess what the meaning of stay with me was. All his touches and caresses were meant to turn me on sexually; he needed me to get back into the state of mind when it would be easier for him to make me orgasm. Because after so many nights spent on this cross, I knew that I would only be taken off it after I had reached an orgasm. Even though, after all this time here, I still didn’t understand the purpose of it. Maybe now that he spoke to me, I could ask him?

  …they’ll kill you.

  Was it a threat? A warning? As much as I hated this place and everyone in here, I had to admit that they never used any direct aggression or violence against me. They locked me up, they restrained me, they touched me without asking, but I never felt like my life was in any danger. Just my sanity…

  I felt the cross tilt slightly backwards, taking me with it. The movement lifted my feet off the platform and, simultaneously, lowered my arms and head, tilting my whole body at an angle along with the cross.

  Now the audience was out of my line of sight, and it felt safe to open my eyes again. I could see the thick wooden beams right under the high ceiling of the arena. They were stain
ed in dark brown and made a stark contrast with the glaring white colour of the ceiling and the walls in the room. An array of chains of various thicknesses was wrapped around the beams, with cuffs of different styles and sizes dangling from them.

  Over time, I had seen a large collection of chains, ropes and restraints in here. I had also noticed a multitude of tools and sex toys displayed on the walls of the arena or laid out on various rolling trays and tables. Seeing them scared me initially. However, for whatever reason, they only used a vibrator on me. I hadn’t had any experience with BDSM prior to getting here, but I had serious doubts that what was done to me in here was related to BDSM that much.

  I did wonder sometimes if people watching me in the arena belonged to some kind of a sick sex club where members got off by watching unwilling participants being tortured with pleasure or pleasured with torture. However, I had to admit that they never caused me any kind of physical pain, even as they were completely indifferent to my emotional wellbeing at the same time.

  Would they really kill me if I didn’t cooperate now? It was very hard to play by the rules if nobody ever explained what the rules were!

  Suddenly, all I wanted was to be back in the safely of my cell, dreadful and lonely as it was. I realized that despite everything, I still wanted to live. I fiercely wanted to survive!

  There was also that tiny little spark of hope now. Since one of them spoke to me, I wanted so much to see what would come out of it. Could I get him to talk to me again? Could it lead to more information? Less loneliness? Maybe even to my freedom?

  His skillful, persistent hands wouldn’t let me focus on my thoughts for long. They continued to glide over my body, their touch more urgent, more purposeful now. One of them wrapped around my throat lightly then slid up until it cupped my jaw from underneath and tilted my face to the side, as if exposing my neck for a kiss that would never come.

  Determined to survive, I closed my eyes again and…cooperated.

  Once I made the decision to go along with what he wanted from me, it was surprisingly easy to surrender to the power of his touch.

  I imagined what the kiss on my neck would feel like if it actually happened. A soft, warm, wet sensation of caressing lips of a stranger, sliding along the sensitive skin of my neck… Heat spread through me. The desperate hunger for contact, any contact, to replace the missing kiss.

  His other hand massaged my breast gently, and I arched my back, pushing into his hand. I needed more. I needed the pressure of his arms around me. I needed the touch of his bare skin. I needed to feel the warmth and strength of a male body moving against mine. I needed more than he could ever give me… Not like this, not while he was hidden behind the mask and the armor.

  I moaned in need. His hand slid from my throat and cupped my other breast, the silk velvet of his glove gliding over the nipple smoothly. I rolled my head and felt the coolness of his helmet hovering just millimeters from my neck. He was so close. I felt his breath through the fine mesh of the lower part of the mask that covered his nose and mouth. He wasn’t gasping or panting as could have been expected. Instead, his breaths were even and steady. Each warm exhale fanned out in a caress along the surface of the sensitive skin on my neck and collarbone. It felt so warm, so very tender, so almost human.

  His hands squeezed my breasts, and I felt the warmth of his strong, large hands seeping through the gloves. It felt almost real. It felt almost right… There was a man behind the uniform.

  With my eyes closed, I could pretend, and I welcomed the chance to forget everything else for a moment. I focused on his steady breathing and let it anchor me as I slowly began to float under his warm, skillful hands. Heat spread through my body in streams and pooled below the steel belt around my waist. I needed his touch there. I needed his hands lower…

  Instead, I heard the familiar faint buzz of a vibrator. It was still a relief to hear it. I needed something, anything at this point. It slid along the outer lips of my opening… I screamed, and my hips bucked.

  One of his hands remained on my breast, kneading, massaging, while the other worked the vibrator. His breathing remained even at my neck – in and out, in and out – and I felt the waves of pleasure rolling through me in the same rhythm. In and out, in and out…

  He increased the pressure on the vibrator slightly, and the waves of sensations finally collided, rushing each other and crashing at the summit with the intensity of a climax too strong to bear.

  A throaty sound escaped me as my hips continued to lurch forward in blissful spasms.

  He turned the vibrator off when my tremors began to subside but kept it slightly pressed to my core rotating it in small circles, letting me ride out the aftershocks of my orgasm. His other hand slid off my breast and his arm wrapped around me just above the steel belt, which almost felt like an embrace. Almost…

  Just like that it was over. With the pleasure receding, the reality came rushing back once again.

  The loneliness, the shame, the desperation. I kept my eyes closed, unwilling to face any of it. He removed the vibrator, pushed the cross back into the upright position, kneeled and unlocked the ankle cuffs. His movements were measured and steady as he released my wrists from the cuffs and unlocked the belt.

  I often felt oddly deflated and even too weak to walk on my own after these sessions and expected him to throw me over his shoulder now, like the others often did, to carry me back to the cell. Instead, he wrapped one arm around my shoulders, hooked his other arm under my knees, and lifted me in a cradle hold.

  He turned his back to the audience on his way to the door, and I pressed my forehead into his shoulder armor, hiding my face to avoid looking at them as he carried me out of the arena and down the familiar dark corridor towards my cell.

  The further we made it from the arena, the more I felt the distance and the coldness of everything around me again. I raised my head and pushed my hands into the plates on his chest.

  “Stop it. Let me go. I can walk now,” I said quietly but firmly. I couldn’t stand another minute of him carrying me like that, like a newlywed would carry his bride, like if he were my lover or at least somebody who cared. It didn’t fit and it didn’t work. It only made me feel more lonely. I didn’t want him to touch me anymore. I didn’t want him anywhere near me.

  He let me down immediately, and I walked the remaining distance to my cell. The sliding metal door with the barred window in it was open, and I walked right in. The tray with the bowl of my dinner had already been placed on the floor by the mattress. A clean dress lay folded next to it.

  My apathy returned, I stood in the middle of the cell with my eyes on the floor, not really seeing anything, and waited for the sound of the cell door closing. Instead, I heard the sound of his boots on the concrete floor behind me. He walked around me and picked up the dress then unfolded it and held it open in front of me.

  It was the exact copy of the dress that he had taken off me earlier. The grey, shapeless dress had a very similar cut to a hospital gown, only with buttons running along its whole length on the back.

  I looked up and met the blue-grey eyes again. They narrowed this time, as if he was frowning under the mask. Still, seeing them reminded me again that there was indeed a person underneath the armor, somebody who spoke to me today.

  I let him put the dress on me and felt him at the back as he brushed my hair to the side and began to close the buttons. He took his time, his movements still measured, his touch light and deliberate. It was not meant to excite this time, and it did not feel sexual or even intimate, it just felt… nice.

  He left afterwards. I wasn’t sure if I imagined it, but I thought his shoulders looked slumped as he walked through the door. He seemed to stagger slightly, and I noticed him steady himself by grabbing onto the doorframe. Was the session as draining on him as it was on me? I wondered humorlessly.

  I sat on the mattress to eat the greenish-grey, gelatinous paste that they served me for breakfast, lunch and dinner. It didn’t taste co
mpletely repulsive, actually. It even had a somewhat pleasant, fresh flavor. It reminded me of some of the raw food dishes I tried when I had a life full of choices I didn’t know I had until I lost them, including the choice of food. I was just so sick of eating it three times a day that, complete with my fragile mental state as of late, I skipped meals often. The guards didn’t seem to care whether I ate or not and didn’t take any notice when they carried away trays with food untouched.

  I couldn’t tell the last time I ate, but I felt ravenously hungry right now and polished off everything that was in the bowl.

  Once finished, I put the empty bowl down at my bare feet and looked at my ankles carefully. For the first time, I really noticed the changes that my body had gone through since I was first brought in here. I must have been losing more weight than I could afford to lose: my arms and legs looked emaciated, almost skeletal. I could easily count my ribs, and sleeping on the thin mattress left me with bruises over the protruding hipbones.

  Come to think of it, I also didn’t remember when I bathed last. They did bring me a bucket of warm water and a washcloth every day after lunch; I just forgot when I actually used the water to bathe.

  I was never given any toiletries, but I used to finger-brush my long hair now and then. Again, I hadn’t done this in a while.

  I touched the tangled, dirty mop of my hair. Gross! Along with my resentment of them, I suddenly felt embarrassment and disgust with myself. They might have been fully responsible for stripping me of all humanity along with my dignity, but I let them. No, I hadn’t just let them; I’d rushed ahead of them and pushed myself into despair further than they ever did.