He marches me over to a full-length mirror. “Look,” he intones.
I wince at my reflection. There are long red welts across my breasts, and when he turns me so I can see my butt, I gasp in horror. There are thick raised lines of vicious red crisscrossing it, with mottled bruises spreading out around them.
He traces his fingers over the welts on my breasts, applying pressure, and I flinch, because it stings. Then he picks my hand up and puts it on my breasts.
“Touch them,” he says. “Remember.” So I run my fingers along the welts the way he did, my breath hissing out in pain. After a moment, I try to drop my hand, but he pushes it back. “Not yet.”
Streaks of fire follow my fingertips. He watches attentively as I keep stroking the agonized flesh, nearly in tears from the humiliation as much as the pain. As my fingers move over my breasts, my nipples swell again, and I curse my treacherous body. I hate how obvious my body’s excitement is, and I loathe the look of triumph in his eyes as his gaze roves over my breasts.
After what feels like forever, he finally pulls my hands away.
“On your knees,” he tells me.
I obey instantly. Choose your battles. I don’t want to be dragged back to the playroom or abandoned in the cell again.
He grabs my hair and tips my head back. “You’re going to take me in your mouth. If I feel even the slightest attempt to bite me, I’ll whip your tits off. Also, I like to be deep-throated. You’re going to learn to relax your throat and let me slide all the way in. It may be hard for you to breathe that way. Too bad. You’d do well to start practicing breath control. Build up how long you can go without breathing.”
I quail in terror at that, but I don’t fight him when he slides a finger into my mouth and forces my lower lip down.
His fingers tangle in my hair, and then his cock slides in, and I taste the salty precum. The head of his cock hits the back of my mouth, and I gag and jerk my head a little, but he holds me firmly in place. I suck in air through my nose, struggling not to panic. I have to force myself to let him slide it down even further.
Desperate to do this quickly so I can breathe through my mouth again, I reach up and grasp the thick base of his cock and move my hand in rhythm as he brutally fucks my mouth. I gulp sips of air in between thrusts and struggle to let his cock go further and further down my throat so he won’t have a reason to hurt me again. Finally it’s all the way in, and his pubic hair is tickling my nose. I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe…It takes everything I have not to bite down in panic. His fingers are twisted so tightly in my hair that I can’t move.
He pulls out halfway, then resumes pumping his cock in and out.
Soon he’s groaning in pleasure. I pray for him to come fast, but he keeps pausing, drawing it out. He pulls himself out of my mouth completely for a few seconds, and I gulp for air, then he slides back in and I gag and struggle. His fingers tighten, and he forces himself back down my throat. The rhythm resumes.
Air. Air. Please. Not enough air through the nostrils. I need to breathe.
“Very nice, Tamara. Oh, that’s good. Good girl. Keep sucking, baby…”
Right this minute, he’s happy with me. He won’t hurt me if he’s happy. I force myself to relax. I’m finally able to do something to his body, rather than the other way around. I control what he’s feeling right now.
When he finally comes, spilling warm, salty semen down my throat, I feel a shocking, fierce joy. I did that. He came for me. He slides slowly out of my mouth, stroking my hair with his fingers. I gulp in air, my shoulders shaking. I want to drag this moment out forever. No pain. No fear. Just the warmth of his approval and the soft caress of his hands.
He fetches me a soft, cream-colored pair of yoga pants, a sports bra, and a T-shirt, and they don’t hurt too badly when I slide them over my bruised flesh.
Then he gets pain-killers out of a locked cabinet that he opens by using his thumbprint. He gives me a cup of water so I can wash them down.
“Thank you, Master,” I say, forcing the words out.
He doesn’t reply. He just takes my hand in his and leads me out of the bathroom and down the hall into the dining room, his big hand still folded around mine the whole way, as if he’s my boyfriend and he just can’t get enough of me. When we reach the table, I sink down into my seat with a whimper of pain. The bruises still hurt every time I put pressure on them.
He’s sending me a very clear message. Disobey, and the consequences will be agonizing. Obey, and there may still be pain, but much less of it, and there will also be exquisite pleasure.
I don’t care. I’m still free, even if it’s just inside my mind. He can tell me whatever he wants, but I’ll twist it around and use it for my own purposes. Pretend to do what he wants for now, until the time comes when I can strike out for freedom. Or die trying.
Chapter Nine
Tamara
“Eat,” he orders me. “Drink.” So I pour myself coffee and load up my plate with fluffy eggs and thick strips of bacon. My stomach growls, and I shrink in on myself with embarrassment. The food is delicious, and I shovel in big bites to fill my hollowed-out belly.
I glance up at him, about to ask him to please pass the milk for the coffee, but he shakes his head.
“You are not equal to me. The only rights you have are the ones that I grant you. You speak when spoken to,” he says coolly. “And you acknowledge when I give you an order, with a Yes, Master. Unless you fancy another session with the cane.”
“Yes, Master.” I look down at my plate. Fuck yourself up the ass with a ski pole, Joshua Smith. Thinking that in my head almost makes me smile, but I keep my lips pressed firmly together. This is a secret just for me. He’s controlling everything else. What I wear, where I sleep, when I eat and drink, how I’m allowed to speak. I can’t even bathe myself. At least my mind is still my own.
As I start to get full, I eat more slowly, drawing it out because whatever he’s planned for me next, I’m sure I won’t like it.
He finishes before me and says, “Stand up.”
So I set my fork down and murmur, “Yes, Master.”
You’re not my fucking master.
I wait as he walks over to a buffet hutch and opens a drawer. He pulls out a thick black collar with a silver ring on the front and a pair of cuffs attached to a chain. He’s all casual, like that’s a normal thing to keep in your china cabinet.
First, he affixes the cuffs to each ankle, and anger fills me when I see how short the chain is between them. I will be hobbling with every step I take.
When he wraps the collar around my neck, I can’t stifle a gasp of dismay. He quickly buckles it shut. It’s tight, and so thick I can’t look down. He’s collared me like a dog. I am rigid with fury and humiliation.
Looking down at me, his beautiful blue eyes holding mine prisoner, he slides his finger through the collar ring and tugs at it.
“Who do you belong to?”
Tears burn my eyes, and I shiver, even though the room is warm.
“You, Master.” I choke the words out. They taste like bile on my tongue.
“That’s right. And this collar will remind you of it, every second of every minute of the day. You’re my property. My little toy. If you attempt to take it off, I’ll do things to you that you couldn’t dream up in your worst nightmares. Understood?”
The tears spill from my eyes and trickle down my cheeks. Every cell in my body is screaming in protest. I want to scream and curse at him, claw at his face, but my body is still aching and throbbing from my last pointless attempts at rebellion. I can’t face another beating. “Yes, Master.”
“I am going to do some work in my office,” he says. “You may walk around the house. You will be summoned for lunch. After lunch, you will be taken to the gym, where you will exercise for one hour. Then you will join me for dinner.”
“Yes, Master.” I shudder as I say it.
He smiles. His finger is still hooked through the collar.
&n
bsp; “You hate submitting, don’t you?”
I glare at him. “Yes, Master.”
He bends down and gently kisses my lips, softly caressing my mouth with his. “I know,” he murmurs as he pulls away. “That makes it so much sweeter.”
Fuck yourself up the ass with a rusty chainsaw, Joshua Smith.
He reaches out and strokes my face, sliding a finger between my lips. I do what’s expected of me. I suck on it, and I don’t understand why a hot wave of arousal rushes through me, or why I picture his cock on my tongue. He makes an “mmm” sound of appreciation, then very slowly slides his finger back out.
“Since you behaved well this morning, you may ask one question.”
Pathetic, ridiculous excitement flares through me, and I hate myself for it. My abuser’s got me so beaten down that I’m thrilled to be allowed to ask a single question.
I want to ask how to get the hell out of here, but then what if he just says there’s no way out, and I’ve wasted my one question for the day?
What should I ask? Is this my only question for the day, the only time I’m allowed to speak? Should I ask if he’s ever going to take the collar and the ankle hobbles off?
He shakes his head and starts to walk away.
“Wait, please, wait! Master!” I scream.
He turns back and arches an eyebrow at me.
“Are you saying that I’m allowed to go anywhere in the house? What if I tried to escape? Master?”
He throws back his head and laughs.
“That’s two questions. But as a reward for good behavior this morning, I’ll answer them both…for a kiss.”
My cheeks flare red. “Yes, Master.”
He strolls back and looks down at me, staring into my face as if drinking in the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. It’s so unexpectedly sweet and tender that I want to weep. When he leans in and captures my chin in his hand, I part my lips to accept the most sensual kiss in my life. It’s as if he’s flipped a switch that’s wired straight to my pussy. As his tongue slowly swirls around mine, he firmly holds my chin in place and probes the inner recesses of my mouth. He swallows my moan of pleasure, then pulls away, very slowly. When he looks down at me, it’s with what appears to be genuine affection.
Something in his face shifts, and as his eyes tenderly caress my face, I feel the air around us warming, and my heart squeezes in my chest.
Please care about me.
But his next words shatter the illusion.
“You’re still thinking of escape, but there is none. Ever. The sooner you accept it, the easier it will be for you. My willingness to keep you here is the only reason you’re alive. You should understand and appreciate that.”
The sensual daze evaporates, replaced by deep sorrow. He looks at me expectantly, so I murmur, “Yes, Master,” with a sullen undertone I can’t conceal.
“Here are the answers to your questions. I have closed off certain areas of the house where I don’t want you to go. If you can open a door to a room, you’re allowed in. Are the doors that lead out of this house locked? I’m not going to tell you. Just keep this in mind: Do whatever the fuck you want, go wherever you want, but if you attempt to escape, or harm me or Elizabeth, you will fail, and I will punish you accordingly.” Then he reaches out and strokes my face, but after his cruel words, it gives me no pleasure. “I know you’re going to try. My dear little slave. I do love a challenge.”
I stare at him frostily. I’m not your slave. I will never be your slave.
“That’s what you think,” he says, and he laughs as my eyes fly wide with alarm.
He keeps doing that. Answering me when I haven’t said anything. Can he read my mind?
No, of course not. He’s just really, really good at reading people’s expressions. I’ll have to control the look on my face whenever he’s watching me.
“Stand there for just a minute,” he says. I do, staring straight ahead; the thick collar prevents me from looking down.
He returns in a brief moment, with a leash. I stare at it in horror as he clips it to the ring on my collar.
“Follow me,” he says.
He turns and walks away, tugging the leash, and I shuffle as fast as I can, taking frantic little steps in a desperate attempt to keep up with him. I’m so bruised that every step I take is painful. I stumble several times, and I’m crying quietly with frustration.
He leads me down a hallway and points at a large door. There’s no visible lock on it. All I see is a doorknob, and a decorative plaque that looks like a lion’s head.
“That’s the front door,” he says. Then he reaches out and runs a thumb along my cheek, dragging it through the tracks of my tears. He brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks it slowly.
The kind, sensual Joshua who surfaced a few minutes ago has vanished, replaced by the abusive monster who thinks he’s my master.
“Question?” he asks with a smile. “I’m in an exceptionally generous mood this morning.”
I glance at the door in misery. “Why would you show me the front door when you just know it will hurt me, Master?”
He leans in and kisses my cheek. “I’m a sadist, Tamara. I enjoy the pain of others. More than enjoy it—I need it. It nourishes me. It’s so important for you to remember that. Looking at this door will help you to remember that, so you’ll know better than to challenge me and give me an excuse for real punishment. This is me helping you. You may thank me.”
His twisted logic makes me queasy. “Thank you, Master.” My face flushes with anger as I say it, and I don’t try to hide the hatred blazing in my eyes. His smile is cold and evil as he unclips the leash and walks away.
I’m trembling with humiliation and rage, and I hug myself, standing perfectly still until he disappears around a corner. I hear his footsteps going down a hall, then a door closes.
I will find a way to fucking get out of here, or die trying.
I start exploring the house, hobbling resentfully down the hallway.
The collar is a maddening, constant presence on my throat. I reach up and move it around, trying to adjust it, but nothing makes it comfortable. My strides are cut in half by the chain, and I almost trip numerous times as I limp down the hallway. My bruises still throb with every step.
Miserable, I try to tell myself at least to be grateful that I’m not locked in my cell all day.
First, I open a bunch of doorways until I find the kitchen. I walk around casually, sneaking glances at drawers and trying to figure out where the knives might be.
Knives and fire. Those could be useful tools. I’d just have to figure out how to get hold of them without anybody noticing, and I’m sure that will be damn near impossible.
I hear footsteps thudding into the room. Elizabeth comes and stands in the kitchen and glares at me, her eyes black with hatred. Did Joshua send her to watch me? Seems like cheating on his part. That’s disappointing.
I walk over to the sink and pour myself another glass of water and drink it, waiting for her to leave.
She’s still staring straight at me.
When I shuffle toward the door, she stands there, blocking me, her mad eyes boring into me.
“I guess Joshua lied when he said I was allowed to go anywhere.”
Her eyes snap with rage, but she moves out of the way instantly, letting me pass. When I walk past her through the doorway, she bumps into me, hard.
I walk down the hall, and she follows very close behind. I can feel her hot breath on my back. Annoyed, I stop suddenly, and she stumbles into me. She lets out an animal-like growl of rage, then steps back.
I keep walking. She keeps following.
I’m angry. Despite the horrible collar and ankle hobbles, I’d been looking forward to exploring the house, but having Elizabeth crowding me with her mean-girl schoolyard bully crap is ruining what little pleasure I’ll ever have again in my life.
And I’m somehow disappointed in Joshua.
I thought I was starting to understand the ru
les here. Now it looks like I was wrong.
Apparently, he’s into playing extremely childish games. And worse, he’s stooping to letting Elizabeth do his dirty work. He’s thrown a curveball at my head, and I don’t know how to work with this new reality.
I feel glum as I walk into a big library with wall-to-ceiling shelves. Elizabeth follows me in and stares at me challengingly.
The collar and the chains and Elizabeth’s angry presence are incredibly distracting. The room is beautiful, all dark wood and Renaissance paintings, but I’m too physically uncomfortable to want to look around and explore. I head to a bookshelf. I grab the first book I see; it’s a hardback collection of mystery stories.
I twist around to glance at Elizabeth, who’s moved into the middle of the doorway.
I’m not going to be able to concentrate on reading with her there.
“I’m going back to my prison cell, if you’ll excuse me,” I snap at her. I walk right up to her. She stands still, spreading her arms wide so I can’t pass.
The malicious glee in her eyes is really pissing me off. I’m enduring enough already; I don’t need to put up with this schoolyard bullshit.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re jealous of me,” I say scornfully.
Rage twists her face. She makes a horrible growling sound again and slaps me so hard my eyes water, and I cry out in pain.
I stagger back, clapping my hand to my face, and her eyes snap with challenge. She clenches her fist, a fierce joy twisting her face.
She wants me to fight her, because she knows Joshua will punish me horribly if I do.
I stand there, breathing hard, my hands trembling with the desperate desire to slap the shit out of her. My heart pounds painfully in my chest, and I will not cry, because of the awful smile twisting her lips.
Then I hear footsteps pounding down the hallway toward us, and Elizabeth goes pale with fear.
By the time Joshua rounds the corner, she’s sunk to her knees.
She’s scrabbling wildly as he grabs her by the hair, pulls her to her feet, and hurls her against the wall. Her body makes a sickening thud. She slides down and lands on her ass and gives him a miserable, pleading look. I see it in her eyes. Desperate, agonized yearning. She isn’t obeying him out of fear—it’s out of love. And I can understand why, on some sick level. Hell, I crushed on the guy for months until I got to know him.
Tamara, Taken (The Blue-eyed Monsters Book 1) Page 8
