by M. Never
Elicit
Copyright © M. NEVER 2016
All rights reserved
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from author M. Never.
Cover Design by:
Marisa Shor, Cover Me, Darling
Photography by:
Sara Eirew
Editing by:
Jenny Sims, Editing 4 Indies
Copy Editing by:
Candice Royer
Proofreading by:
Nichole Strauss, Perfectly Publishable
Holly Malgieri
Interior Design and Formatting by:
Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable
Table of Contents
Elicit
Dedication
Jett
London
Jett
London
Jett
London
Jett
London
Jett
London
Jett
London
Jett
London
Jett
London
Jett
London
Jett
London
Jett
London
Jett
London
Jett
London
Jett
London
Jett
London
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Books by M. Never
For Kayne and Jett’s original SS
I love her and that’s the beginning and end of everything
~ F. Scott Fitzgerald
I’M STARTLED AWAKE BY A shrill cry.
I glance at the clock glowing in the darkness. 3:17 a.m. The ear-piercing shriek happens again, and London stirs, muttering profanities in her sleepy state. I place my hand on her back.
“Stay. I’ve got it.”
No protest. Only a relieved sigh as she rests her head back on the pillow.
I pad down the hallway, bleary and barefoot, following the source of the disturbance. Flicking on the small, lamb lamp, I meet the culprit’s awake blue eyes and gummy smile. She screams again, in excitement this time, as I approach her.
“Little girl.” I hoist Shia up out of her crib. “You need to let your mommy rest. We thought your sister was bad, but I believe, my darling, you take the cake.” I sit in the pink and white striped glider with my wiggly six-month-old climbing up my chest. She just wants to be held. Always wants to be held. “You need to start crawling”—I rock with her arms latched around my neck—“so the house can sleep.” I yawn, silently thanking the stars above I’m the only one she woke up.
A tiny giggle and happy feet are her response.
I stare down at her adorable, chubby face as she stares up. “Eyes just like your mommy with insomnia to match. She never used to sleep, either.” I rock a little harder, whispering to her. “But she wanted you. She wanted you so much.” She chortles as I nuzzle her little neck. “She didn’t think she deserved you. Or me or love or happiness. But I set her straight.” I smile haughtily to myself, recalling the past. Recalling my wife and her strength despite all her struggles. All our struggles.
Shia fights falling asleep, breathing hard, squirming to stay awake.
“You’re not going to miss anything, baby,” I hum in her ear, coaxing her to relax. “We’ll all be here in the morning to love you.” I used to tell London the same thing when she couldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t sleep. Downright refused.
That seems like a lifetime ago, considering she sleeps like the dead now.
Also my doing.
I rest my head on the back of the chair and close my eyes, hoping the smooth glide and my steady breathing will soothe the beast.
No such luck.
I add a lulling tone. This isn’t the first time I’ve wrestled an alligator. I know the drill.
“What story shall I tell you tonight? Perhaps the princess one again?” I rock and rub her little butt, littered with cupcakes on the onesie pajamas from Aunt Ellie and Uncle Kayne.
“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess,” I start. “Who was controlled by an evil sorcerer . . .”
The past
I WISH HE WOULD JUST kill me already.
I float in a black space of pain as my head is submerged underwater, my lungs burn desperate for air, and my body sodomized. The relentless drill of my Master’s hips and an iron grip on the back of my neck keeps me restrained. I start to unconsciously struggle as the rapid loss of oxygen suffocates me. My limbs spontaneously twitch as I fall away into a terrifying darkness. Please let this be it. Let the suffering end.
I welcome death. Or at least the tease of it seconds before I completely black out.
I never reach the euphoric escape, because he knows exactly how long to trap me in hell. Pulling my head out of the water, he beats into my abused little asshole as I sputter, cough, and choke until he comes. A stomach turning growl reverberates from his throat as he rips me open with one lone punishing thrust. I nearly throw up from the god-awful pain. As soon as he’s done with me, he lets go, allowing my limp body to crash to the ground. I have no energy left to stand or fight or even live. I shiver, cold and naked on the dirty floor. A shell of the person I used to be. A person I barely remember.
After zipping his leather pants, he crouches down next to me. I cower. Master grabs a fist full of my hair and yanks so I look him directly in the eyes. Dark, terrible, soulless eyes.
“Who are you?” he asks in his thick Russian accent.
“No one,” I immediately respond.
“What are you?”
“Nothing.”
And I believe it. I am nothing. He made it so.
His lips curl into a cruel smile. I’ve only ever seen half his face because of the mask he always wears, reminiscent of the Phantom of the Opera.
“Such an obedient pet.” He tosses me away like the nobody I am. The nothing I mean to him.
“Go to bed,” he orders, and I instantly move despite the protest of my aching body and weak limbs. I crawl across the room—never, ever walk—to the cage in the corner. I know better. I know the consequences of disobedience. I scurry inside, cold and wet, with come leaking down the inside of my thighs. Dirty is just how he likes me. Master slams the door closed and locks it behind me. I look up at him, like a pathetic, trapped animal.
He knows that’s exactly what I am, too. That smug thought reflects in his empty, hazel eyes. I’m his property, his pet.
“Lie down.”
I do as I’m told, curling into the fetal position. I don’t have much room. This four foot-by-four foot metal square is where I live.
I’m nearly five-foot-eight.
“Good girl.” The arrogance in his tone is disgusting. I don’t show my disdain. Just fake forlorn with the pitiful part I play. Is it still a part? Or is it who I’ve become? That line has blurred in recent months.
I watch as my Master saunters out of the room. Alone again, I cry my desolate tears inside. I’ve learned my lesson. No sadness or fight or voice. My liberties have been stolen away. I curl tighter on the thin scratchy blanket, struggling to get warm. It’s always cold. I’m always naked. Always hungry. Always desperate. You have no idea what I had to do to
get this small, everyday item most people take for granted.
He’s a monster.
I don’t know how long he’s owned me, but it feels like a lifetime. I can’t even remember how I got here. I just woke up one day, shortly after I turned sixteen, in this very spot. In my frilly pajamas, still an innocent girl.
I’m not innocent anymore. He saw to that. The first day stripping my dignity away as he made me shed my clothes. I cried, I fought, I screamed, but ultimately, he won. Overpowering me in both body and mind.
He punishes me severely if I disobey. Verbally, physically, sexually. Making it crystal clear who is Master and who is slave in this twisted arrangement.
I’ve been forced to perform numerous sexual acts like a circus freak. With men, with women, with him. I was taught to pleasure but never be pleasured. That is not my purpose. I was forced to submit, to obey, to satisfy however instructed. To absorb the pain, unless it’s pain he wanted to see.
He’s good at pain. At demoralizing. At demeaning.
He thrives on it. Lives for it. I feel his satisfaction after every horrific interaction we have.
I’ll never understand how this became my life. My hell.
I shiver until I fall asleep.
Dreaming of nothing more than a hot shower and a warm bed.
“Wake up.” I startle awake as my Master kicks my cage.
I push myself up to my knees and bow my head, as he’s trained me to do.
He unlocks the door and orders, “Shower. Clean up.” He points at the bathroom, and I quickly crawl out, my knees banging against the scratched hardwood as I rush toward the bathroom. There’s no door and no privacy in this dismal little apartment where I’m kept. I glance back at my Master, waiting for his instruction. Usually, he washes me himself. Or watches me wash. But he just stands next to the cage.
“By yourself. Don’t be long.” Something is different in his tone—a different air—and it makes me wary. Scares me more than his hostile, domineering persona.
I crawl to where he can’t see me before I stand. My lower back and thigh muscles ache as my body elongates. It feels strange to stand at my full height since it happens so infrequently. I quickly turn on the shower as hot as it will go and step under the spray. The warmth is glorious on my cold, prickly skin. I scrub the dry come from my legs along with all the other muck stuck to me. Washing my long, red hair with the crappy shampoo and conditioner, I finger comb my way through the unruly knots. I rinse quickly, relishing every fleeting second of the hot shower. Who knows when he’ll allow me another one.
I wring my hair of moisture prior to stepping out of the tub, wanting to extract every single drop. I’m afforded no towels, forced to air dry in the chilly apartment.
I crawl out of the bathroom with beads of water damp on my skin.
Master is sitting on the edge of the bed. His head down, elbows resting on his parted knees. I’ve never seen him sit in such a susceptible way. He’s always authoritative. Always commanding. Never human.
I come to settle in front of him, awaiting instruction.
“My little pet.” His gruff voice almost sounds melancholy. He grabs my chin and forces my face up. “The most beautiful. The most perfect. My most perfect creation.” Master lightly runs the pad of his thumb across my lower lip. The touch is foreign.
“Tonight is your last lesson.”
Last?
I swallow thickly. Maybe the time has finally come. Tonight’s the night he finally kills me. I tremble, fighting the fear with all my might. No emotion. No emotion.
You are no one.
You are nothing.
Death is your freedom.
Master clutches my face more tightly. “I smell your fear, and it’s warranted.”
He’s always told me this arrangement wasn’t permanent. I’ve known all along how it would end. I hold back the tears. Why now? What did I do wrong?
He slides his hand down to my neck and squeezes constrictively. “Tonight, I want everything.”
Everything?
He sees the question burning in my eyes.
Inching closer, the smell of the leather becomes potent from his mask.
“No holding back. When I touch you, I want to hear it. When I hurt you, I want to hear it. I want to listen to you moan and cry and whimper, garnering every single thing I make you feel.”
My head is spinning. I hear what he’s saying, but I don’t understand. I’m not supposed to convey anything.
He’s conditioned me that way.
I’ve turned it all off. Everything. Nothing’s left inside. This is the most terrified I’ve ever been—more so than from the beatings and punishments and torture.
“I told you, pet. Your fear is warranted. But you will do as I say. You know what I’m capable of.”
I nod quickly with his hand still securely around my throat.
“Get on the bed. All fours. Show me that pretty ass.” He releases his death grip, and I climb onto the bed a mass of nerves. Nothing but a thin white sheet covers the mattress. It’s not even soft. It scratches against my abraded knees.
I peek over my shoulder as he opens the closet. My tendons tighten immediately. Nothing good ever comes out of there.
I look forward before he sees me spying. My fear spirals out of control. Tears form. Silent pleading begins. I’ve been in this position so many times, but tonight, it all seems more real. More final. I breathe heavily. Pant with anxiety.
“That’s it, pet. Let it out.” He doesn’t even warn me as he lands the first blow. I grit my teeth silently and clutch the sheet. Fuck, that hurt. He chose the bamboo stick, the worst weapon in the closet. He hits me again and again, the swipe of the stick whistling through the air. And again and again, I hold it all in.
Whack!
Whack!
Whack!
He’s merciless until I relinquish what he wants.
I try. Trust me, I do. I want to scream, but the sound is buried deep in my throat. Tears pour down my cheeks as he canes my ass raw.
Whack!
Whack!
Whack!
The pain paralyzes me until my will breaks. Until everything I have in the subterranean pit of my soul erupts. I finally scream, bellowing tears of agony. I sob into the mattress, begging for mercy.
CRACK!
The last blow shatters me, my limbs giving out.
I lie there facedown, fragmented on the bed, my tears unstoppable, his breathing ragged.
“Why?” I whine. “Please just tell me why.”
I’m so pathetic. I deserve to die.
Master sits on the bed next to me and rubs my sweaty back. Never has he touched me so gently. Never consolingly.
“You’ll know soon enough, pet.”
I lift my wet eyes to look at him. “I hate you.” He said he wanted to hear everything. Why hold back now?
That cruel smile returns to his lips. “Good.”
Good?
This man does not make a lick of sense.
He gets up off the bed and goes back to the closet. Oh, no. I tremble harder. I’ve done it now. I hammered the last nail into my own coffin. I weep some more, crying for my old life. For my old self. For the innocent girl who loved books and music and art. I cry because this is my tragic end.
“Shhhh.” Master placates me. I squeeze my eyes shut and retreat into myself. “Lift your head.”
So you can cut my throat?
“No.” I weakly refuse, pressing my forehead against a spring.
“Pet.” His voice is stern but not threatening. “Open your eyes.”
It takes me a second, but I finally crack one open. He shows me what he’s holding. A black scarf and a pair of handcuffs.
“Now, do as I say and lift your head.”
I warily listen.
He covers my eyes with the material so everything goes dark.
“Hands over your head.” I slide my hands up, and he cuffs them together. I’m laid out on the mattress, restless, worried,
and wound so fucking tight.
“Relax, pet.” Master runs his fingertips leisurely down my spine. “Do you know how long you have been with me?” His baritone voice is almost melodic.
“No.” I squeak.
“Two years.”
I gasp. That long?
“Do you know what today is?” he goes on.
“No.”
“Your birthday.”
I instantaneously cry. Two years? I’m eighteen today.
“Why are you telling me this?” I fight to ask.
“Why not?” he challenges.
“You never talk to me. Not like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like . . .”
“Like you’re not nothing?” He continues to trail his fingers up and down the grooves of my spine.
“Yes.” I sniff, the material soaked with my tears.
“Tonight. You’re you.”
“I don’t know who that is,” I confess.
“You will.” He gently touches the angry welts on my ass, and I hiss.
The mattress shifts before I feel a strange sensation along the dimples of my lower back. Is he kissing me?
“What are you doing?” I scramble forward, but he swiftly traps my hips.
“Giving you your last lesson.” I feel his tongue move down the line of my ass. My whole body stiffens.
“I love it when your ass looks like this. Red and swollen and tender.” He squeezes a cheek, and I groan in pain. Tender doesn’t begin to describe it. I feel him roll off the bed, listening to the floor boards creek as he moves around the room before returning to me. “Up.” He forces me to kneel. I sit on my knees blindfolded and handcuffed as the bed dips with his weight directly in front of me.
“What did I tell you I wanted?” His thick accent reverberates around me.
“To hear me,” I answer.
“That’s right, pet. Your pleasure and your pain. I’ve made you weep with pain. Now I’m going to make you weep with pleasure.”
Pleasure? I have no idea what that is.
I barely finish the thought before I feel something clamp around my nipple. I gasp, lifting my arms to find Master’s face there. It’s his mouth licking and sucking and tugging on the little nub. I’ve never felt . . . I have no words . . . I pant rapidly as he touches me in a way I’ve never experienced before. I mewl insecurely. Of all the things I’ve done with this man. Of all the things he’s done to me, mostly horrible, I’m confused as to how he can draw such a reaction from my abused body. Make me feel . . . anything pleasurable at all. My tension eases as he takes turns attending to each nipple while fondling my breasts. “Put your hands over your head.” His voice is as eager as his touch. Once I lift my arms, he smashes his face into my cleavage, rubbing his cheeks, his nose, and his greedy mouth roughly across my skin. His mask is gone, allowing me for the first time to feel his features. He massages my chest as he zealously kisses his way up my collarbone then eats away at my neck. I can’t comprehend what’s driving his actions. It’s almost as if he’s never touched me before. I don’t understand, and I have no idea how to react. When he clutches my face, my response is to panic. What did I do wrong? Then his lips are on mine. Strong, willful, demanding—all the makings of my Master. He slips his tongue into my mouth, and I freeze.
