I’m up now, thinking of Gavin when I take those steps that lead me to the bed, and lie down as instructed. I close my eyes and think of green eyes, while the beast shifts me so my head is hanging off the edge of the mattress, then binds me at all four corners, and blindfolds me.
He’s at The Cage now, I can hear it, and the fear over what he’s getting has my mind seeking deeper shelter. So I search for a memory, something I can use to strengthen me inside. That’s when I find myself in the pool, on the edge of the world, wrapped in strong arms while I laugh uncontrollably. I’m still thinking about that when I feel the bed shift with his weight and feel the brush of his pants against my legs, then brace for what’s coming. But instead of his flesh, something cool and smooth like metal, slides up and lodges inside me. The memory starts to slip when he secures straps around my thighs and places things on my body, sticking to me, that feel like they have something attached to them.
He's off the bed now, and I hear him setting something up, over by where the tray table is. Then I hear the rustle of clothes, and know what that means.
The pool disappears completely when I feel his touch, moving around my breasts, and I know he’s inspecting his work from last time. Then I hear his voice.
“Alright, Ava,” he says, running his fingers across my lips now. “I’ve taken you every place but here. I don’t have to tell you, that if you bite down on me, the deal’s off and you’ll be sure to see a side of me you’ve never seen before. But you’ll be good for me, won’t you?”
I nod.
“That’s what I thought.”
Two fingers slip inside my mouth and over my tongue, then push back into my throat and move back and forth. I try so hard not to gag. So hard.
“Tell me,” he says, “did you suck his cock?”
I shrink when I hear the sullen rage in his voice, but I manage to shake my head. He’s silent for a moment, as he keeps working his fingers deeper, and I think maybe he’s trying to tell if I’m lying or not, but when I hear him say, “Glad to hear that,” I know he believes me.
He shoves his fingers down my throat and this time I do gag.
His fingers leave my mouth and slide over my exposed neck. “Keep this relaxed, here,” he says.
Something brushes against my head, then his flesh is on my face. I feel the velvet skin, smell the musky scent. He rubs the swollen tip back and forth over my lips, smearing something slippery on me. “Stick out your tongue,” he says, his voice growing deeper, huskier. “Taste that? That’s precum. And feel that? Feel that part of me, along the tip, where the scar is? That’s a tender spot that feels extra good, so flick your tongue there sometimes, and keep that in mind whenever you’re sucking on me. Now, open your mouth.”
I do as he says and he slips inside me.
“Now close your lips around me,” he orders. “And no teeth.”
He begins pumping into me, my neck straining from the backward angle.
“Don’t forget to use your tongue,” he says, his breath growing faster. “That’s it. Now relax your throat muscles, like I told you.”
I try to do what he says, but as soon as he ventures into my throat, I can’t help but gag and thrash below him. He pulls out of me, and I gasp for air as he drags his wet flesh across my face. He sighs and I hear the creak of the chair that’s next to my head, and know he’s sitting down now.
I flinch when a soft kiss falls on my cheek, then his lips are at my ear and he whispers, “Brace yourself, Ava.”
I don’t understand, until my body explodes with a surge of electricity that has me arched over the bed, straining against my bonds. It feels like a bolt of lightning is striking me between my legs and blasting through every part of me. I’m shaking, shaking, shaking, clenching my teeth until the surge finally dies out, and I collapse back onto the bed, panting, and begin to cry.
“Alright,” he says gently, wiping at my tears. “Shall we try again?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ava
From there begins a dark descent into a world of pain, like he said, I could never have imagined. As promised, he sets the sadist loose to perfect his craft. I bruise, I bleed, I tear, I scream. I become a canvas for his fury. Sometimes he’s tender when he’s cruel. Other times, he’s filled with a rage that never seems to fade. Sometimes he feeds me pleasure with my pain. Other times, it’s only my pain he wants. So much pain that sometimes I pass out. But he gets smarter, hones his skills, so I don’t slip under anymore. So I just hover at that line.
I become intimately familiar with every item in The Cage. The Beaded Cat, the Rawhide Flogger, the Lexan Rod, the Rattan Cane, the Birch Switch, the Braided Crop, the Signal Whip, the Cattle Prod, the Power Box, the Speculum, the Scalpel, the Hooks, the endless types of clamps, gags and harnesses, and the list goes on. He gets new things he finds online, or sometimes he makes his own. Sometimes he doesn’t even pull from The Cage. Sometimes he uses other things. Like his fist inside me, or a wet rag over my mouth. Sometimes he makes me do things to myself. Those things are always the hardest. Always so hard.
But I use Gavin to help me. He gets me where I needs to go. But there are times when those green eyes fade and all I can focus on is the beast—on the things he does to me, or makes me do. Things that make me want to break, to fall apart and beg for death.
Slowly though, I learn ways to survive. I learn that if I keep myself calm and control my breathing—center it—I can manage the pain better. I learn that when he beats me, no matter the tool, it hurts worse when my body is tight, so I try to focus and keep my muscles soft and loose. I learn to accept the pleasure he grants, knowing it will help when the pain comes. And when it comes—as it always does—I learn to seek out the high, to relish in the endorphins that flood my body, helping me to get to that place…that place where everything fades and I just float. That place he once told me is called ‘subspace.’ But he won’t always let me go there. He likes me aware. He likes me to suffer.
Then there are times when nothing I do helps. Sometimes it’s all wasted efforts, because he knows now. The sadist knows how to hurt, how to inflict pain of the acutest kind, and draw it out, both mentally and physically. He’s perfected it like an art form, and become a true master of his craft.
A master of suffering.
And that’s what I do. I suffer. Then after the suffering, I’m always so out of it, he has to carry me to the mattress, where he lies me down and pets my hair, telling me how beautiful I am, what a good girl I was. ‘Aftercare’ he says it’s called. ‘To bind me to him.’
Over time, it comes to include tending to the places he’s hurt me, gently rubbing antiseptic ointments on my cuts, or salves on my bruises, knowing the faster I heal, the faster he can hurt me there again. And sometimes, if he can’t work out his rage to get to that quiet place, he’ll leave me in the crate, then come back when he’s calmer and put me to bed. And that’s how I always fall asleep, every time, with him sitting next to me, stroking my hair, giving me the tenderness I’ve learned to accept and even come to crave.
Eventually I wake, realize it’s not just a nightmare but my life, then go cleanup for the next time. Then sometimes when I’m ready, he comes for me right away, because he watches me. Always watches. Occasionally, he allows me some time to curl up in the closet, giving me some quiet, but I know it won’t be long before he comes for me again.
Then it starts all over.
The endless cycle.
Suffer.
Sleep.
Shower.
Suffer.
Somewhere along the way, when he was in one of his darker moods, he told me my ranch had been sold, and all my things with it. I think I slipped under that day.
Eventually, the world beyond my cell fades. Everything blurs. Days become weeks, become months, I think. I have no concept of time, no idea if it’s day or night. All I know is the routine and the little marks I make with my fingernails in the far corner of the closet, when I’m huddled up tight, like now.
One hundred and fifty-three marks.
That’s the number of ‘sessions’ he’s had with me. That’s what he’s taken to calling them. And somewhere along the way, I started counting them. I guess to give me some measure of my time here. Not knowing, otherwise, makes it feel endless, like I’m adrift with no end in sight.
But there is no end in sight.
I don’t know why I even make these marks.
It doesn’t matter anyway.
At least he’s safe. And my friends are safe. Ben’s safe. They’re all safe.
That’s all that matters.
Sometimes, when my mind’s working, and I’m curled up here, in my dark little corner, rocking back and forth, I’ll take the precious memories of Gavin, of the horses, of the Hanley’s, and even my father, and sift through them in my mind, savoring them like a piece of meat to a starving soul, then tuck them away good and deep, where the beast can’t get to them.
And sometimes I think of the books that were once mine, of the worlds I used to escape to, and try to escape to them again. Especially that island, the one in The Black Stallion, where it’s just the boy and the horse. I like remembering how they found ways to survive, and how they got rescued.
Then there are times I think of Shayne, but back when he was just a boy. His eyes were dark, even back then, but there was still an innocence about him. That innocence that comes with being a child. He didn’t have much of it, but if I think hard, I can see it in those eyes. And it’s so weird to think of him that way, and I don’t know why I do it. Maybe to make him more human to me, and not just a beast. Because thinking of him as human lets me hold on to the hope that maybe someday he’ll realize what he’s doing is wrong, and maybe he’ll let me go. I know it’s a long shot, but still, it’s something. And something’s better than nothing.
But the hard times—the worst times—are when my mind feels so shattered, that the memories disappear—gone—like they never existed. Those are the times I feel myself being sucked under, to depths so dark I know I’ll never be the same. It already feels like I’m fading. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror anymore because all I see is a ghost. A pale ghost with big, hollow, blue eyes and ribs poking through. In fact, I’ve lost so much weight that the wedding ring fell off during one of the sessions. So now I have a thick jagged scar around that finger instead. Another scar to go with all the others, all mixed in with new bruises and old bruises, new cuts and old cuts, and topped off with a MR cattle brand on my hip.
Even so…
He won’t break me.
He will never break me.
But somehow the words I whisper silently to myself don’t sound so sure anymore. My only comfort is that I know I’m not the only one fading. I’ve seen him…seen the beast from the corner of my eye. He’s fading too. He has the same darkness on his face. The same pale skin. When he’s naked, his ribs are starting to show, kind of like mine, only not as much. He’s still got the muscle though, only now it’s ripped. So ripped I can see all the striations and veins running through, especially when he’s—
The click of the lock sounds and I flinch, and my thoughts scatter. I scramble to my feet and scurry to my mark, where I get on hands and knees, my hair hanging down around me. By the way he walks in, I can tell he’s in one of his quiet moods. That’s when he’s tender. That’s also when he’s at his most cruel.
I wait, filled with all the fear and dread that’s a constant for me now, but there’s another feeling inside me too. A strange feeling. And I’ve been having it for a while—an odd sort of comfort when he’s near me, when I’m with him. Like now, I find myself seeking out his scent, breathing him in as he walks into the room.
Maybe it’s the isolation, the desperate hunger for human contact that has me looking forward to my time with him, no matter how brutal. Or maybe it’s the little mercies he’s been granting lately. A little more pleasure, a little less pain. Or the blanket and pillow I woke up with the other day. Or maybe it’s the aftercare—that time when he’s soft with me, binding me to him, like he said. Whatever it is, it’s making me feel things. Strange things. Things I don’t understand.
The beast moves past me to the bathroom, and when I peek through my hair, I see a box in his arms and know he’s restocking things like toilet paper, soap, shampoo and conditioner, razors, and toothpaste. And stuff to clean with too, and clean towels, and even some creams and medicinal things for when he tends to me, and lotion for me to keep my skin soft. He doesn’t bother with the feminine products anymore, because I’ve only had my period once since I got here, in the very beginning—not because I’m pregnant or anything, but because my body’s changed. At first I wondered how he knew I wouldn’t get pregnant, but he knew I had an implant. I don’t know how he knew that.
He’s back in the room again, walking past me to toss the empty box in the hallway. I sneak another glance and see he’s got part of his hair back in a ponytail again. He’s been doing that lately, so he can see me, work on me, because it’s gotten longer, like mine has. He’s also taken to shaving again too, though from his profile, I can see he’s got a dark stubble today.
When he turns back to the room, I’m already staring at the ground. I hear the creak of The Cage door open and close my eyes, trying not to think about what he might choose.
A moment later, he’s behind me. “Down,” he orders. I lay my shoulders on the cool cement, with my head turned to the side, but leave my hips up, knowing that’s what he wants. He’s silent for a minute, and I know he’s inspecting the cane marks from our last session. They burn when he runs his fingers over them, but I stay quiet. A minute later, he slaps my sex a couple times, to wake up my nerves, then slides three fingers inside me. I gasp when the pleasure floats through my body, savoring it. He’s an expert now, a virtuoso of my flesh, and knows just how to touch me, how to play me.
His fingers move around, inside and out, churning up my arousal, then he drags my wetness up and over my other place—his place. He’s inside me again, opening me up with his fingers. I hear him spit, feel the cool tip of what I know is an anal plug. He pushes it in slowly, his hand on my hip holding me in place. I grunt when it finally slips in, but welcome the sensation. He’s getting me ready. Ready for him. He doesn’t always grant me this. Sometimes he just takes me.
He’s in front of me now. “Knees,” he says.
When I rise up on my knees, my head is where he wants it. At his crotch. He’s still dressed, in his usual black t-shirt and black pants—not sweatpants or jeans, but a loose kind of cotton that he’s taken to wearing. His uniform he calls it. And he’s barefoot. Always barefoot, to make it easy for him in here.
I see the bulge and know what I’m supposed to do. I slide down his pants and underwear just enough to set him free, then take his hardness into my mouth, and suck. And then that feeling is there. That one that has me savoring his taste, relishing his scent.
The beast doesn’t touch me, doesn’t talk to me, doesn’t do anything but take harsh breaths and look down at me with those black eyes, watching while I slide him back and forth between my lips. I flick my tongue along the tip, cup and lick his balls, and stroke him with my hand. All the things he’s taught me. All the things that make him groan, like he does now. I shift the angle so I can get him down deep, into my throat. I don’t gag anymore, something I learned early on. I keep at him for a bit, feeling the fullness of the plug in my bottom, and feeling the ache for a release.
When he’s had enough, and he’s good and wet, he takes himself from me and says, “Elbows.”
I lean down and rest my arms on the ground, bent at the elbows, and wait. He’s behind me again, slowly turning and tugging at the plug, working it back and forth, loosening me up. I find myself yearning for his voice, for the things he’ll say sometimes, about how good I feel, or how hard I make him, or how much he loves my body. But not today. Today he’s silent, a cruelty he likes to wield sometimes.
Even so, my breathing spike
s, my body purrs, a slave to its master. He pulls the plug from me, straddles my hips, spits, then his flesh is there, pushing harder and harder until it slips inside. I cry out, the initial breach always so painful, even with the warm up, because he’s just so big. He starts working himself in and out, in and out, every time going deeper and deeper, until he’s all the way in. He lets out a harsh hiss, while I focus hard, focus so hard to tear the pleasure from the pain. But I know it will ease, I know my body will open up for him. He pulls out and gives a good thrust, the weight of him coming down through my bottom, through my legs, and into my knees that slam into the concrete. I shriek and know that’s the pain he wants for me.
He pumps over me while the tears begin to fall, his only touch the flesh that he sinks inside me with hard, building thrusts. My knees bruise with every vicious stroke and I have to concentrate. Concentrate so hard to use the pleasure to override the pain. Because I can’t move my legs, can’t lift my knees. I have to stay exactly as I am. That’s the rule.
His grunts grow louder, as do my cries. But the pleasure is there now, inside me. I still have the pain, and know my knees will be black and blue, but…the way he feels inside me.
He spreads me open with his hands and pounds against me with short grinding jabs, getting himself in good and deep, then comes, quietly. The tears flow freely, not just because of my knees, but because he didn’t grant me a release. Another bit of pain he wants for me.
When he pulls out, I’m left empty and aching. I stay where I am, knowing not to move. He walks off to the bathroom, without a word or a caress. More pain for me.
I hear the faucet running, and he returns a moment later.
“Go clean up,” he says, “I’ll be back for you in a minute.”
He leaves the room, and slowly I rise, my knees so sore I can barely stand. But I make it to the bathroom and tend to myself quickly, ignoring the ghost with puffy red eyes, in the mirror. When I’m done, I go back to my mark and wait on hands and knees once more, this time letting my hands hold most of the weight.
Tragic Beauty Page 15
