by Kitty Thomas
“No . . . please don't leave me. I'll be your whore. I'll be whatever you want, please.”
I heard him punch in the combination code and then the click of freedom I couldn't have, and he opened the door. He turned and smiled at me, the smile of victory. Then he let the door shut softly behind him.
Several days passed, the bleeding stopped, and I was still in the cell marking off the days. He'd supplied me with clothing again and my bathing supplies, but I chose to remain naked. I wasn't sure if this was considered disobedience, but I was counting on his self-control slipping, that at some point he wouldn't be able to stand not taking what was bare to his gaze.
But if it fazed him, he composed himself before entering my cell. He brought my food and bath stuff, looking at me, but nothing more.
On the seventh day I expected it to be over. I'd done my time, surely he would touch me again. I would let him, and then I would be rewarded and get to go back to the good cell. The room where I was favored. But day seven came and went without him making any move toward me.
I hadn't built up the nerve to talk to him again since that one day. I was too afraid to change the routine. I wasn't sure exactly what sins had mounted against me and if speaking was one of them.
I needed touch, comfort, something. I was losing my tenuous grip on sanity, on reality. Everything felt fuzzy, and sometimes I wasn't sure if I was awake or asleep. I prayed it was a nightmare, and I'd wake up back in the good cell again. I'd stopped dreaming of escape because every part of me knew it wasn't possible. My subconscious mind chose to spare me the torment of dangling carrots I couldn't eat.
Instead I dreamed of the good cell, something I had some hope still of achieving. As the days slipped onward, I began to doubt I would ever get to go back there. Maybe what I'd done was so bad he could never forgive it.
I'd hoped being in the cell naked would entice him to come to me, that he wouldn't be able to resist taking what he considered his. But nudity alone wasn't cutting it. In an act of sheer desperation, I laid on my back in the middle of the room so every camera saw me. I spread my legs and touched myself. I didn't know if the cameras had sound attached, and I wasn't sure if I was moaning for his benefit or because I couldn't help it.
It had been more than a week since I'd had an orgasm. In the short time I'd been in the good cell, he'd brought me to release so many times it made my head spin with it. Now as I stroked myself, I realized how much I missed the pleasure he gave me.
I was in the middle of possibly my third orgasm when the door came crashing open. Everything inside me said to stop. Run. I had no idea where I would run to, but instincts usually operate on the run principle.
Instead, I boldly met his eyes, my fingers slipping inside my pussy, daring him to respond in any way. I didn't care how. He could fuck me or beat me. Any touch, any response from him would be welcome. But he stood there, his black eyes penetrating me, refusing to give me even anger in a physical manifestation.
He slammed the door behind him, and I stopped and moved to the corner. My heart was beating practically out of my chest, as slow dread started to creep over me. I'd wanted a reaction but now I was terrified I'd gotten one. I didn't need him out of control and angry.
My desperation had made me stupid. Minutes ticked by like months, and then finally the door clicked open again. He brought in the things for me to bathe, and clothing. When he left it was the first time in longer than I could remember that I was relieved he hadn't touched me.
I bathed quickly and put on the clothes. As I picked up the shirt, a book fell out. I backed away from it like it was poison. Was it a trick? I knew I didn't get nice things in the cell. Or was it like the bandages? I didn't know which was the correct thing to do, ignore the book or read it.
I slipped the sweatpants on and buttoned up the white top while staring at the new variable. The fabric felt weird against my skin after walking around so many days without clothing. Clothes made me feel like a person, and as a person I couldn't deal with what I'd become. If I remained a naked animal, it was better, easier. But he was finished making my life easy.
After circling the book a few more times, I picked it up and moved back to my corner. The corner was the only spot that held comfort because I knew if I was there, there was a chance he'd open the door and come for me.
I blushed, recognizing the book's title as something I'd read once in a much different time and place. I cracked the spine and started reading, knowing the contents would arouse me despite everything, but also knowing that if I didn't read, I might never achieve absolution from my captor.
It didn't take many pages before I noticed the first place a highlighter had been used over the text. The word master glared back at me in bright sunshine yellow. At the next instance of the word, it was highlighted again. I flipped through the book to see hundreds of bright yellow rectangles. He'd probably stayed up an entire night doing it. Or spent days on the project, hacking away at it chunks at a time.
It was a book I'd once read and gotten off on, and I still got off on it, only now, it was true. A true story about me. Reading it made me ache to touch myself again, but I didn't. I knew he must be watching, and I didn't want to be caught again. I'd been in the bad cell for two weeks. Much longer and I wasn't going to be able to hold onto any of my sanity.
The book was a slim volume, something that could be read in a couple of hours if you didn't dog-ear the pages and stop to masturbate. Within minutes of finishing it, I heard the key code being depressed on the other side and the door opening. He hadn't come with food, though I was hungry, and for a minute my pulse pounded at the idea that he might be there to take me back to the other room.
He approached me and stopped a few steps away from where I stood waiting in my corner. I moved my hands up to the buttons of the white artist's smock. He shook his head at me, and I let my hands fall to my sides.
He started to leave. What the hell did he want?
“Please . . . don't leave me here.”
Normally he turned at least to look at me, but this time he didn't acknowledge my voice. Instead, he punched the numbers into the keypad. I wasn't ever getting out of there.
Then I knew what he wanted from me. It would be obvious to any thinking person.
There was a time when it would have been difficult, if not impossible for me to say the words, but I was desperate and I hadn't lied when I'd said I would be anything he wanted me to be.
“Master, please.”
He'd gotten as far as opening the door, and he stopped, letting it fall back and latch shut. Then he turned toward me, a slow smile spreading over his face. Yes. That was what he wanted. I was getting out.
Adrenaline hummed through my veins. Whatever it took, I was getting out.
He crossed the floor slowly, and then he was unbuttoning my shirt.
***
. . . She leaned into him as he removed her top and cupped her breasts, pinching her nipples painfully. In the time before, she would have cried out at the sensation. Now she was just glad to be getting sensation at all, even if it hurt. His mouth latched onto her breast, and her breathing deepened as he swirled his tongue over her flesh, soothing where he'd just hurt her.
She gripped his shoulders as he stripped the sweatpants from her body. She never wanted to wear these clothes again. He pushed her to her knees; she fumbled with the fly of his pants. Then she was sucking him, desperately seeking to please him enough that he would forgive her for her former sins.
He stroked his fingers through her hair, comforting her, urging her onward, and then he pulled out of her.
“Did I do something wrong?”
In response, he positioned her on the concrete floor on her hands and knees facing away from him, spreading her legs slightly. She could hear him rifling through his pants on the floor, and then he was on his knees behind her.
His fingers found her clit, and he stroked her. She moved back, trying to grind harder into him. It had been so long since he'd touc
hed her like this. She was willing to do anything to make sure he never stopped for so long again. She panted, and a moan escaped her throat.
“Please . . . yes . . . ” she whimpered.
He kept going until she came and screamed out her release, sobbing with relief that he was finally touching her again. Then she turned to see him squirting something out of a tube.
Lubricant.
She started to crawl away from him, back into her corner. “No, Master, please.”
He shrugged, then stood and moved toward the door again. He refused to give her the peace of doing anything without her permission, no matter what a joke it was. She panicked.
“Don't leave me here again. I can't take it. I can't take anymore of this. I've been here two weeks, please.”
He turned back to her and held up the lube, a question in his eyes.
She nodded and moved back into the position he'd placed her in. She still wasn't sure this would earn her a ticket out of the cell, especially since she'd fought him.
She couldn't help tensing when he approached her. He stroked her back over and over, his fingertips playing lightly over her skin. “Shhhh,” he soothed. “Shhhh.”
She began to calm. He'd refused for weeks to speak to her, and although this wasn't exactly speech, it was communication. It was sound. She began to cry over the tiny crumb he gave her and relaxed further.
He prodded her entrance with one lubed finger, as he continued to stroke her back with his other hand. She didn't resist. She cried out as the finger eased inside her, and he went more slowly, more gently.
She found she was grateful for that. It was small, but it was something. He continued with the one finger until her body got used to the sensation, and the burning pain ebbed away. Then he repeated the process with two fingers while her fear mounted higher.
“Shhhh,” he soothed again, when she started to cry, his free hand rubbing her back.
When her body had gotten used to fingers he withdrew them and slowly eased his cock into her. She let out a hiss, but soon the pain passed, and he urged her to start moving. Slowly, she fucked herself on him as he panted behind her. Then his fingers returned to her clit, and she began the climb toward her second orgasm.
She came and it felt like a shot of electricity zipping up her spine. He pulled out of her and cradled her in his arms, stroking his fingers through her hair and kissing the top of her head while she cried. More from relief than anything else . . .
Six
He didn't take me to the good cell. Instead, he led me to another room, one I'd never been to. When he removed the blindfold, my mouth fell open.
Too many things to look at. There were chains on the wall and a metal table with cuffs on it. There were whips and canes and other various implements of pain that I didn't exactly know the names of. There was a giant round bed with a red velvet comforter pressed against one wall, beside which another set of chains dangled. There was a black leather couch in the center of the room and a box overflowing with more sex toys than I'd ever seen outside a retail environment.
I realized what I'd done too late. I'd accepted. I'd called him Master and accepted he was in charge of me, not me. Before that moment had I still had freedom? I wasn't sure.
He would have left me in the cell probably forever. But which was worse? The cell? Or the new tortures waiting for me in this chamber?
It was a testament to how much of me he'd taken that I thought the bare cell was worse. He wouldn't leave me alone in this room. He would be there with me. It should have sickened me. It should have made me scream in terror, but all I could feel was relief.
I wasn't sure if I'd ever see the nice room again, but this was better than the past two weeks of nothing. I turned to see him gauging my reaction. The door to this new chamber, equipped with the same technology as the others, stood open.
He always gave me choices. Or maybe what he gave me was force wrapped in the pretty package of pretend free will. I'd spent a lot of time analyzing him, and though I knew he was obviously in some sense crazy, there was always a logical basis for his decisions. He believed he was giving me options, in his own twisted way, and therefore he wasn't the bad guy.
Either he didn't recognize blackmail wasn't a choice or he didn't care. He hadn't used physical violence. Until now. Whips seemed pretty violent to me. But I knew him now, more intimately than he thought.
He believed he could hide his soul from me by never speaking, but his actions told me everything I needed to know. He wanted me to beg for the whip. And I would do it. I'd do anything he wanted. The door stood open, and he stepped aside, and we danced our little dance.
Would I run? Or would I stay and obey him? The choice was obvious. There was nowhere to run to. He'd already shown me this was true. He would never force me to do anything in that dungeon room. He would just put me back in the bad cell and ignore me like a crated misbehaving puppy.
His eyes held challenge, and I stupidly still had enough defiance inside me that I wouldn't run from him because I couldn't face the shame and humiliation of going to that other cell again. The last incarceration had been two weeks, no time off for good behavior, no response to any of my demands or clever tricks. Next time would it be three?
Or would he tire of this constant disobedience and shut me away forever?
I didn't move toward the door. I held his gaze and said, “I'll do whatever you want.”
I could see evidence of his arousal outlined through the pants he'd put back on. He was wearing only jeans, the muscles of his chest so beautiful I could hardly stand to look at him.
Still, he didn't move. I walked to the door and shut it, and then panicked because I'd just locked myself into a sadistic torture chamber with my captor. My captor who I trusted not to hurt me because he never had before, not physically anyway.
I'd made my choice. I turned and moved back toward him, still naked. He hadn't put the clothes back on me, and I was glad. I'd rather be naked than wear the clothing I'd come to associate with punishment.
I watched him, waiting for his next move. He studied me for a few minutes as if his brain were cataloging all my actions and reactions on a hard drive somewhere.
He held his hand out to me, and I stepped forward and took it, trying to stop shaking. He smiled that soulless smile that made me feel warm and like I was dying all at the same time. A flush crept over my body from the predatory gleam in his eyes.
***
. . . He led her to the bed and arranged her on her knees facing away from him. The soft velvet was a warm caress against her skin. She heard his footsteps recede over the concrete floor, and she squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see what he'd gone to get. She was unsure which would be worse, an instrument of pain, or pleasure.
When he returned, his hand was gentle on her chin, raising her face toward him, and she opened her eyes. She could see something soft and almost human in his gaze, and she wanted to latch onto it. He turned her face so she could see the riding crop dangling loosely from his hand.
Her eyes flew back to his as the same cold fear she'd had in the other cell came rushing back. His eyes held question. He'd only hit her if she agreed. The mockery of her free will made her angry, but her anger was dwarfed almost completely by the feel of his hand on her face.
He'd been gentle in the other cell. He'd taken something profoundly scary and been kind and reassuring. She was still reeling from the careful way he'd held and rocked her afterward and then watched her with something like concern as he'd put his pants back on.
Her eyes drifted to the riding crop again, and she nodded. Then he was behind her. She tensed as she heard the crop slice through the stillness of the room. It was deafening. And then the sharp, loud pain. She gasped, tears in her eyes.
“Please . . . ”
He stopped.
“No, don't stop.” She wished she could take the words back, but any further begging died in her throat as she relaxed and let the crop fall on her.
How had she allowed him to turn her into something so ugly? Someone who craved any sensation at all, even if it was pain. A few moments passed, and she let the rhythm of the strikes wash over her. When she'd reached the threshold of complete surrender, the pain morphed into something tolerable and almost . . . pleasant?
Her body betrayed her, taking this new sensation and responding with arousal.
He stopped then, and she had a moment to catch her breath before he returned with a single-tailed whip. She'd thought it was ending, but he'd only been warming her up for more. She'd read enough to know this wouldn't be pleasant.
The whip cracked a few feet from her, and she jumped, finding her knees no longer wanting to support her weight. He allowed her to lie on her stomach and ran his hand over her back and the roundness of her ass. Then the strip of leather whipped across her skin, leaving a sting so sharp it brought tears to her eyes.
As he whipped her, she cried out but didn't beg him again. She let it happen, whatever he wanted, as long as he didn't take her back to the bad cell.
He continued, and she found herself floating while the endorphins flooded her system, and he pushed her higher still. Tears streamed uncontrollably down her face, but it wasn't the pain that made her cry.
It was release, absolution. The surrender, finally, of everything to him. The acceptance that she was now his creature, not her own, and the inexplicable peace that brought her.
Finally, it stopped and she could feel a warm wetness on her back. He'd made her bleed. She felt his tongue trailing over the opened flesh. He stepped away from her, and she worried he wasn't finished yet. Maybe he would take her beyond her ability to tolerate the pain to make her prove her new loyalty to him.
When he returned, he had a small basin of water, cloths, bandages, and ointment. He patched up her wounds, then turned her in his arms and kissed her softly on the mouth.
