by Cerys du Lys
Around this time, I realize what’s going on. I don’t want to realize it, but it is what it is.
“You have done three things which deserve punishment,” she says. “I will punish you three times.”
Fuck. Motherfucking fuck. At least it’s my good hand. That’s not much of a consolation. My other hand has a splint on it. I don’t know where the cast went. My finger feels better, though. How long have I been here?
Angeline stands above me, hands poised over the lever. She presses both palms against it, readying herself to slam them down.
“Do you want to tell me anything, Noah?” she asks.
“Fuck--”
I was going to say “fuck you,” but before I get the second word out, she slams down hard on the lever. The lever controls the metal crescent-shaped wedge, which is lodged beneath my fingernail. The wedge flips up. My nail goes with it, my entire fingernail pops up. It clings to my cuticle, fighting to stay a part of my body. I stare at it, feeling untold amounts of pain, but my brain hasn’t fully realized this yet.
Angeline smiles sweetly and places her thumb and index finger around each side of my bloody nail, then she pulls it free. I lose my nail. She took my goddamn nail. She used some archaic torture device to remove my fucking nail.
I scream. I’m screaming. The pain is horrifying. Who the fuck does this? I’m bleeding. I can’t even think anymore. Fucking hell. This is worse than hell. My finger throbs and pulses and I see the beating of my own heart in the splash of blood pooling around the end of my finger. Pulse-beat, pulse-beat, and there’s blood, then more blood.
I don’t know how much blood there is. It hurts so fucking bad, though. I thought I knew pain before, but I didn’t. I would rather she slam my head against a wall and bite my lip again.
You have done three things which deserve punishment, she said. Fuck.
She’s fussing with the machine again and my finger is free now, but another takes its place. Before she straps in my ring finger, she wraps a bandage around my injured finger. It doesn’t do much good, because the bandage soaks through with my blood in a matter of seconds, but maybe it’s the thought that counts?
She lines up the wedge again, fitting it beneath the nail of my ring finger and screwing it in tightly again.
“Do you want to tell me anything, Noah?” she asks.
I’m fucking hyperventilating over here, trying to deal with the pain, and she’s asking me shit like that? “Go to hell,” I say. I was going to say more, but she slams down onto the lever and pops the nail of my ring finger free. Like before, she grabs it with her thumb and index finger, then plucks it loose.
No amount of cursing can do me justice. I can’t even think. Two of my fingers throb now. I’m bleeding. I’m going to die here, aren’t I? I hope it happens fast. How the fuck? Where did she come up with this? I’ve never heard of it before, and I’m kind of glad about that.
You know what I do? I don’t do this, for starters. I am happy to say that every girl I’ve kidnapped has kept all of their fingernails. Now that I think about it, I’m proud of that, too. They may have lost their dignity, yeah. I broke them down with pain and agony, but I didn’t fucking rip their fingernails off. I spanked their asses until they bruised. I fucked them hard while they screamed for me to stop. I slapped them, called them names, kept them locked in cages, forced them to eat food from a pet bowl, and more, but I never did this.
My eyes are closed, but I don’t remember closing them. I want to keep them closed. I want to pass out. She can do the last finger without me. I’m gone. Noah’s not here anymore, Angeline, he’s taking a break, didn’t get a good night’s sleep. Go away. Come back later.
She kisses me. I don’t understand what her deal is. Her lips press against my cheek and she strokes my other cheek with her hand. She trails kisses from my cheek to my ear, nibbling lightly on my earlobe. The whole thing is fucked up. I’m in severe pain here and she wants to kiss me?
A part of me hates her, but another part starts to admire her tactics. This is fucked up. This is really fucked up, but that’s what makes it so good. It is terrifying. I don’t know if she’s doing it on purpose or if she’s just so fucking crazy that she can’t help it.
I want to bite her. I want to spit on her again. I open my mouth to try and do one of those, but she stops me with a kiss. Her tongue touches mine and we kiss like that, with my mouth open. It tastes like she’s wearing cherry lip gloss, and it’s fucking delicious. She kisses me, urgent.
Bite her tongue, I tell myself, but I can’t. I’m in too much pain and it’s hard to think straight. I need to relax. I don’t want to think anymore. I want to stop. It hurts. My fingers hurt, and shooting pain travels up my hand to my wrist, towards my arm. I can feel it in my chest as my heart beats faster and faster. For some fucked up reason, that makes her kiss even better. It’s like she’s having sex with me with her mouth.
I realize I’m hard and I want to fuck her. This crazy bitch just ripped off two of my fingernails and the only thing I can think about is how much I want to shove my cock in her pussy. That’s seriously fucked up.
She kisses me more, then less. I manage to open my eyes, but all I see is her dark hair in front of me. Her lips kiss towards my ear again.
“Poor Noah,” she whispers. “Sweet Noah. Do you want to tell me anything?”
Yeah, I do. I have a lot of shit to tell you, and I’m going to do it. That’s what I think, but it doesn’t come out the way I planned.
“Ange, love, two is fine, right? No more.”
She sighs into my ear. “Noah, why do you refuse to listen to me?”
Fuck. Fucking A. Fuck. “No,” I say, panicking but trying to stay calm. “No, no, Mistress Angeline. Two. You have two, Angeline. You don’t need more. You don’t--”
Except she’s gone now. She’s not kissing me. She bandages my ring finger, then sets my middle finger into the device, strapping it in. She inserts the wedge, tightens it, and stands there, palms pressed against the lever, waiting.
What the fuck is she waiting for? I can’t stand it.
“This is the last one, Noah,” she says. “For now.”
She slams her hands down. My nail comes loose. She takes it. I scream in pain and agony and nothing I say makes sense.
*** Angeline
Noah screams in anguish and I listen to the tortured music of his soul. His voice sounds so fractured and beautiful right now. I wish I had thought to record it, but I have never done that before. No one else sounds this beautiful, it is just him. His singing is lost and forlorn, excruciating in its distress, but all the more magical because of it. This is true emotion, and very real to me.
I lay his lost nails on the side of the table, lining them up. I will keep them. Thank you, my sweet Noah, for this wonderful gift. He is kind in his unkindness. He has accepted the consequences and dealt with the punishment required because of his actions.
It is done, though. We are through. I wanted to do this later, but perhaps it was best to do it now. Now we can have a nice breakfast. I set loose his finger from the nail remover. I wish it had a nicer name, because its function stirs powerful emotions within me, but it does not. Sometimes simple tools are the appropriate ones. Sometimes simple actions say more than complexity. That is what I hope. I hope he will come to understand. Not now, no, but in time.
Noah sobs before me. I want to kiss away his tears and taste his salt on my tongue. I stare at his fingers for a moment, becoming delirious at the sight of his blood. I wish I could taste him. I cannot, though. His wrist is strapped to the table and I need to keep it that way. It is unsafe to do otherwise, because Noah does not understand yet. I hope he will.
Please, my sweet Noah.
I take the nail remover to the door of the room, and leave for a short moment. There is someone waiting outside for me, standing silently. I do not know his name anymore, because it is no longer important; no longer a part of him. He looks like everyone else that I own. I hate them. I hate w
hat they have done to me and what they have made me do.
Noah is different. I do not hate him. I do not believe I can ever hate him.
He says he hates me, though. It is distressing.
The man I hate who has no name takes my nail remover and assures me he will have it cleaned. Good. I will need it later. I command him to have someone bring Noah breakfast, as well. It is not morning, but Noah has just awoken, and so we shall act as if it is. The man nods and accepts my request. If he did not, I would kill him right then and there. I do not want to do that, and I am thankful he has not made me do it.
I return to Noah. He no longer screams a bitter lament to an unpleasant world. Instead, he sits there, eyes closed, contemplating his own thoughts. I wonder what he is thinking? I want to see into his mind. He fascinates me.
“Noah,” I say to him. “I am done now.”
“Who the fuck are you?” he asks.
I smile sweetly at him. I wish I had more than a disingenuous smile to give him, but I do not. “I am in a good mood, so you may call me Angeline if you wish.”
“I know your name, love. That’s not what I was asking.”
I grit my teeth. Why does he not listen? I have told him what he needs to do, but he does not do it. I do not want to hurt him anymore. I did not plan to punish him as severely as I did, but it was necessary.
“It’s a habit,” he says. Is that an apology? “Angeline, alright? I said it. Are you happy now?”
I am, actually. I smile at him, feeling genuinely happy for a brief moment. It is a hard emotion to understand, but I believe I like it. I do not feel happy often. I do not know when the last time I felt happy was. It is gone now, though. I was happy for a moment and now I am not.
“You may speak,” I say. “If you want to talk, you may speak. I will stop the bleeding.”
I have a kit under the table near my feet and I open it to get more gauze. I also take a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I must cleanse Noah’s wounds because I do not want him to get infected. I find a small bag of cotton balls, then I douse one in rubbing alcohol and dab at his middle finger. He winces and screams obscenities at me, but his wrist is strapped to the table and he cannot escape me.
“Bloody fucking hell!” he shouts, but his eyes are closed and he seems more hurt than angry. “What the fuck are you doing to me now? Are you fucking done, Ange? Angeline? I thought we were on the same fucking side. None of this shit makes sense. What the fuck are you doing?”
“What side is that?” I ask him.
His finger is not bleeding as badly now, so I bandage it. The other bandages are too bloody, but they have served their temporary purpose. I gently take them off and dab at those fingers with the alcohol-covered cotton ball, too. Noah shouts at me, but he quiets down fast. I wrap his fingers with fresh bandages.
“We’re on the same side,” he says again. “The same team, right, love?”
I ignore that he has called me “love” because I do not know if I can punish him more right now, and also his words interest me.
“What side?” I ask again. “What team?”
“We’re--” But it seems like he is having a difficult time articulating his thoughts. I believe I understand somewhat, but not entirely. “Fucking...” He truly does have a problem with his vulgarity. “You do the same thing I do,” he says finally. “You kidnap people and sell them to buyers. It’s what we do. We’re both the same.”
“I do,” I say, nodding once in agreement. “I kidnap men and sell them to people. You kidnap women and sell them.”
“Is that what this is about?” he asks. “You’re going to train me and sell me to someone? I don’t think it’s going to be that easy, love.”
“No,” I say, both agreeing and disagreeing with him. “I understand that.”
“Look,” Noah says. “Angeline, let me level with you.”
He is looking at me now, but I know he does not like what he sees. I try to look at him the same way, but I cannot. I am looking at him, but my gaze passes through him.
“Yes?” I say, tilting my head to the side, curious. He seems to be thinking.
“I understand the hazards of the job as well as anyone. Once you’ve gone through with taking someone, you can’t let them go afterwards. Too risky. So you’ve either got to kill them, keep them, or sell them. We both know that’s how it goes. Right?”
“Yes,” I say. “That is correct.”
“I think it’s safe to say we’ve got extenuating circumstances on our hands, though. Don’t you? You don’t have to kill me or keep me or sell me, because no matter what happens I’m not going to go to the authorities. If I did, they’d come snooping around me, too, and that’s the last thing I want.”
I listen to him, but some of his assumptions are incorrect. I will not tell him that yet, though. I do not know if I will have the opportunity to tell him in the future, either.
“So let’s make a deal, then? What do you say, Angeline? I can pay for my freedom. Not only that, but I’ll track down and kill the fucker who paid you for me. It’s a win-win situation right there, love. You can keep the money they gave you, I’ll give you twice as much, and you won’t have to worry about an upset client.” He hesitates for a moment, then says, “Deal?”
I think about it for a moment, but I do not need that long. I already know what I will say.
“No.”
“Why the fuck not?” he asks.
“Noah, I have told you I dislike your cursing, yet you continue. I am being generous at the moment, but you are making it increasingly difficult for me to hold back.”
“Fuck you, Ange. Angeline. Love. Just fuck you. It’s hard for you to hold back? That’s bullshit. You do this because you like it, you sadistic fucking whore. You don’t have to do it; you want to do it. Don’t lie to yourself.”
He is wrong. He is very wrong and it makes me sad to know he thinks that way. I do not. I do not wish to hurt him. I will hurt him, yes, but I want him to be kind to me. I want him to call me Mistress Angeline, and if he ceases his cursing then I will allow him to call me Angeline, too. I would still take his fingernails, but that is a different matter entirely. I would be kind about it, not cruel. I would not have taken three right away, only one or two. It hurts me to think that I should have taken more.
I stare at his hands, at his bandages, but the beds of his fingernails are no longer bleeding as much. Tiny pinpricks of blood dot the bandages, bleeding through the gauze, but not too much. I wish I could have let loose his hand and placed each of his fingers in my mouth and tasted him. I wish I could again. I want to bite his lip like I did before and kiss him and taste his blood and... I... I will, I...
I almost lose myself to bloodlust and rage and hurt and pain, but someone knocks on the door before I inadvertently assault Noah. He is being bad, but I must refrain from punishing him for a moment. Only a moment, though. We shall eat a nice breakfast together, he and I, and we shall conversate. Communicate? Discuss...
I wish to talk with him. That is what I want to do. I find him fascinating.
*** Noah
The fucking psycho bitch has a plate of food for me and she’s feeding me like I’m an invalid in a body cast. Which is almost the truth. Not technically speaking, but what the fuck’s the difference? She’s got me strapped to a chair, wrists bound to the tabletop, ankles chained to the floor, a splint on one hand, and bandages covering three fingers of my other.
I couldn’t do anything if my life depended on it. If this whole place burst into flames right now, I’d be dead. My life does depend on it, too, but not because of a fire.
Angeline is insane. I have no doubts in my mind that she’s fucking with me and plans to kill me. None of what she’s said so far makes sense. Who the hell would want me? Who would pay her to kidnap and train me? Because it’s not going to be that easy. It’s not like she can just bring me here, tell me what’s up, and do her usual routine.
Maybe she can, though. Maybe that’s what she’s doing right n
ow. Maybe I’m falling for it. It’s not like I’m special. I understand her game, but that’s about it. I’ve got a head up because of that, but understanding her and being able to fight against what she’s doing are two different things.
I want to fight because this is bullshit. Who the fuck does she think she is? How the fuck did I fall for it in the first place? I don’t know how she found me, and I don’t know how she took me from my home. She’s got balls, that’s for sure. Angeline is probably the only woman I’ve met who may in fact have a penis and a pair of testicles. That’s saying something, but it’s not saying anything good.
I need to calm the fuck down and evaluate this situation. Yeah, she acts tough, but she doesn’t actually have the testicular fortitude necessary to pull something like this off. For one thing, I saw her walking around in her underwear, so I’m completely positive she’s not hiding a cock. That sounds wittier in my head than it really should be. Fucking Angeline. The bitch pisses me off. She’s really getting to me.
“Noah?” she says, cocking her head to the side.
It’s fucking cute. Stop the fucking cute shit, you insane whore. It’s confusing me. Don’t tilt your goddamn head at me.
“What?” I say.
My fingers still hurt. I can’t believe she used some Dark Ages torture device to rip off three of my nails. Worse yet, she’s got them lined up on her side of the table, like they’re poker chips and she’s ready to go all in on a bet.
She’s betting I’ll give up. She’s betting that I can’t handle this. If we’re being fucking honest, it hurts like hell. I can still feel the pain throbbing in three of my fingers, pressing against what should be my fingernails, except I don’t have them. Every time my heart beats, my fingers hurt. It’s constant fucking dull agony, and it’s not sharp, but it feels like it’s going to last forever.
