When the Dark Wins

by Addison Cain

  Once again, he lifts my motionless body. Manipulating my legs till I’m kneeling before the sofa, he takes a seat, straddling my shoulders. Fisting his cock, he licks his lips as he stares at my exposed breasts.

  “Damn. Smartest thing I ever did was buy you. Fuck my frigid wife. This is just as good. Better because you can’t complain about choking or not wanting to swallow. Can you, my slut?”

  I stare at him in horror. Buy me?

  “That’s what I like. A silent woman who knows her place. On her knees with a cock in her mouth.”

  His hips shift forward. The head of his cock pushes past my lips. I try to move my jaw, to clamp down on him with my teeth. Nothing happens. He presses further in. My tongue won’t move. There is nothing to prevent him from thrusting deeper. It is as if I am frozen. An inanimate object with an open hole for him to abuse.

  “That’s it, bitch. Take it. Suck my cock,” he groans as his hand snakes around to the back of my head.

  I want to scream in terror and frustration. Desperately I try to raise my arms, to bite down… to scream!

  His thick cock chokes me as I feel the hard shaft press against the back of my throat. Nothing impedes his punishing thrusts. His hand on the back of my head holds me in place for his assault.

  “You like this don’t you? You like being on your knees. Being my little slut,” he rasps.

  I don’t! Stop! Stop! Please!

  All I can smell is stale beer and leather. My throat burns. My knees begin to ache as they are pressed into the hard wooden floor. As I’m forced forward then back with the motion of his cock, my breasts keep sticking to the leather of the sofa. The room is silent save for his grunts and groans. With one final thrust, my nose smashes against his abdomen as he grips my head from behind, grinding my mouth down on his dick. A thick stream of cum fills my mouth. I want to vomit but can’t.

  After a few more pumps, he pulls his flaccid penis from my sore mouth. Shoving me away, I fall to my side on the floor.

  Used and no longer useful.

  I lie there helpless at his feet, the musky taste of his cum cooling on my tongue. Unable to move, I stare straight ahead at the sofa; underneath it I see used condom wrappers, beer bottle caps, popcorn and crushed potato chips. I am down here with the rest of the discarded and forgotten trash.

  He leans back with a groan and reaches for the remote. I hear a click, then the mindless buzz of a football game. He places his bare feet on my hip.

  I feel bruised and numb. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been on the floor. Nothing more than a foot rest.

  “Steve? Steve? Are you down there? Answer me!” a woman’s agitated voice calls from somewhere above.

  “Fuck. She’s home early,” curses Steve. “I’ll be right up, dear,” he calls out.

  Rising, he leans down and lifts me up high. My feet drag listlessly along the floor as he pulls me behind the bar.

  “Open up, sweetheart. Time to clean that dirty mouth of yours,” he whispers almost affectionately. I feel my stomach clench as I fight the urge to retch. Holding me up by my hair, he raises a bottle of dish soap to my mouth.

  No! No! What are you doing?

  “Open up.”

  Bright green liquid soap drips into my mouth. The chemical bitter taste burns my tongue. I so desperately want to cry but the tears won’t come. Steve reaches for the faucet and pulls it free of its base. Turning the water on, he directs the stream directly into my mouth. Cold water shoots down my throat and up my nose. I try to struggle but can’t move. I’m drowning. It feels as though my whole body is shaking but I cannot tell. Pulling the faucet away, he pats my mouth, throat and breasts with a dirty dishtowel.

  “All clean,” he states as he once again lifts me up high. “Time to put you back in the closet. Can’t have the wife finding you.”

  No! Please no! Don’t put me back there. Back into the darkness. Please! I need the light.

  As I wrestle with the rising panic of once more being locked in a closet, I catch a glimpse of myself in his arms in one of the cracked bar mirrors.

  I stare.

  And stare.

  Not believing my eyes.

  It’s me… but it’s not me.

  I’m not real.

  I’m not real!

  The mirror reflected the vacant, empty stare of a life-size doll.

  Chapter 3

  There is no cathartic release without expression.

  Fear, agony despair. These emotions are too strong, too overwhelming to be contained inside your own head. They need a release. Tears, thrashing arms, screams. After being shoved into the dark closet, I thought I wanted to cry but I was wrong. I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to feel my own tears. I didn’t want to scream. I wanted to open my mouth wide and hear the power of my own voice. I wanted to feel the bite of my nails as they dug into my palms when I formed my hands into angry fists. I wanted to pace and thrash my arms about.

  I wanted to move.

  I wanted to be heard.

  But there was nothing. Worse than silence… there was stillness. No matter how I may have screamed and thrashed about, all inside the closet remained quiet. It was all inside my head.

  A person could go mad with only their own tormented thoughts for company.

  My thoughts spun in circles till they became a twisted, gnarled mess.

  Was I still trapped in the car and this was my mind playing tricks on me? Some macabre nightmare playing in my mind as I waited in the darkness for help to arrive?

  Was I in the hospital? Caught inside a coma?

  Was I dead?

  As the hours and days ticked by with only my scattered, torturous thoughts for company, I realized that I could not possibly be in my car or a hospital. What was happening to me was too bizarre, too insane for my mind to have conjured even under a drug haze. Defying all logic and religion, my mind was trapped inside this plastic prison. A cruel hell, to be able to think and feel but not move.

  Still, I never gave up trying. First it was my body. Then I tried focusing on my arm. Then a finger. Nothing.

  The smell of the closet became as familiar as breath once was to me. The musky scent of old clothes and dust. The sour smell of gym sneakers. A slight hint of perfume clinging to a long-forgotten sweater. The curved edge of a hanger dug into the back of my neck. It hurt yet I could do nothing. Not even the simplest of movements to dislodge it.

  I started to use the rumble and hiss of what sounded like an air conditioning unit turning on to count the days. Having no idea if I was right, it at least gave me some semblance of control, a false sense to be true, but if I could look forward to hearing that noise, if I treated it like a task to be accomplished, it gave a small measure of sanity as the relentless days passed trapped in my plastic cage.

  One day. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  Caught in the hell of my own mind.

  Six. Seven.

  I began to long for the return of Steve. At least it was some kind of human interaction. Even if he brought pain, at least it was pain laced with the most treacherous of all drugs… hope. Maybe he would see a spark behind my vacant eyes and know… know there was someone in here. Maybe if I wasn’t confined to this small space, maybe I could start to move again. At the very least, I wanted another look in the mirror, to confirm what my startled eyes had seen, even though the reality of my situation had already more than branded the twisted truth on my mind.

  Having already heard the air conditioner turn over for the day, my mind was floating from one inconsequential thing to another when I heard it.

  Footsteps.

  The sound of a key scraping in a lock.

  The turn of a door handle.

  Then the loud slamming of the door.

  Steve had returned.

  My heart leapt. Fear and anticipation warred with one another, giving way to panic.

  Unlike the last time when he went directly to the closet to free me, I could hear his heavy footfalls cross the room. He was muttering something
. I couldn’t make out the words, but it sounded harsh and short, as if in anger. The refrigerator door opened and, like the room’s door, was slammed shut.

  “Fuck you, Gary. You worthless dick. Steal my client, will you? We’ll just see what happens on Monday when I get back in the office.”

  He was mad.

  Jesus fuck. What did that mean for me?

  A bottle crashed against another. The sound of the refrigerator door opening again.

  A second beer.

  After all those days begging for him to return, I now found myself desperate to stay inside the dark and safe cocoon of my prison.

  The closet door flew open, the door knob banging against the adjacent wall.

  The bright light pierced my unblinking eyes.

  He pulled me out by my arm.

  “All right, slut. Daddy’s home and he’s pissed and needs to fuck something,” ground out Steve as he flung me on the sofa.

  He towered over me, dressed sharply in a suit and tie, which somehow gave him an even more ominous appearance of power and authority. I watched as he shrugged out of his jacket while kicking off his shoes. Pulling off his tie, he said, “You want it don’t you? You want my cock. You want to be fucked hard.”

  I knew better than to protest. I wondered would he care if I could? If I did protest and he could hear me… would he stop? By the look in his eye, I thought not.

  Leaning over my prone body, he tore at the knot which secured the school uniform shirt.

  “Get this fucking stupid uniform off. I want you naked.”

  Next, he tore at the skirt.

  Humiliation swept over me.

  Looking down I could see the large lush swells of breasts, far larger than mine had been in real life. Hard looking pink nipples poked upward. I saw a flat stomach and an unnaturally narrow waist. My legs were bent at an odd angle…spread open to expose a smooth, plastic vagina. Was there a hole there? For his… his cock? Like there was a hole where my mouth should be?

  Jesus fuck.

  It was my body… but it wasn’t.

  Still, being exposed before the hard gaze of a stranger, my legs open as if I were willing… it was too much.

  I started to scream. I didn’t care if no one could hear me. I could hear me, for now that was enough… it had to be enough… it was all I had.

  Steve grabbed both my ankles and wrenched them up and back. Pushing till they were behind my head. I could feel the silk of his tie as he wrapped it around my legs and secured it tightly.

  Oh God! It hurt. My human body would never have bent this way. The pain was unbelievable. As if I were being pulled and crushed at the same time.

  “That’s it. Ankles behind your head, like a good whore. What should we call you tonight? I need a good stripper name. How about Trixie? Yeah, Trixie the whore.”

  He undid his black leather belt. Grasping the end with the buckle, he swatted the leather strap across my exposed ass and pussy. The contact felt like a brand. Burning my skin and leaving it feeling bruised.

  “How’d you like that? Damn I wish these things came with some kind of speaker. It would be a lot more fun if I could hear your screams.”

  ‘I am screaming,’ I thought pitifully.

  His pants and boxers lowered to the ground. I watched as he tore at his shirt with anxious fingers. The bulbous head of his cock bobbed under the shirttails. Its mottled purple flesh in stark relief against the starched white of the cotton shirt.

  Lying on the sofa, all I could see was his broad, hair covered chest through my stretched legs as he positioned himself over me. With one full thrust, he impaled me on his cock.

  He thought he was just fucking a sex doll.

  I knew he had just taken my virginity.

  My head bumped against the sofa armrest as he plowed into my unresisting body. Each movement of his cock sent a fresh wave of clenching, grasping pain up my spine. It felt as if he were fucking me raw. If I had been human, at least the blood from my maidenhead would have provided some slick comfort. I was denied even that as his hard sweaty flesh slid against my smooth plastic insides.

  Steve groaned and, as if on impulse, he leaned down and bit my nipple. Making a growling sound, he pulled hard on it with his teeth.

  No! Oh God! No! You’re tearing it! Stop! Stop!

  Looking down in horror, I could see his teeth marks forever cut into the molded plastic breast.

  He continued to relentlessly pound into my body.

  “That’s it, Trixie. You whore. Take it. Take my cock,” he groaned.

  My name is Jane.

  My name is Jane.

  I’m Jane.

  Jane.

  I held onto the mantra in my head. With each thrust, each guttural groan, every disgusting utterance of his… I held on to the only thing that was still mine. My name.

  My name is Jane.

  Chapter 4

  He finished by spewing his sticky thick seed onto my stomach.

  “That fuck hole of yours is a real bitch to clean out,” Steve said with a laugh as he pulled on his boxers and rose to get himself another beer.

  As he turned on the TV and started up a video game, I was forced to lie there, with my body in its crippled position. I had lost all feeling in my legs. My pussy felt bruised and raw.

  As his cum cooled and dried on my stomach, it began to itch.

  “Steve. Steve? You down there? I brought dinner home,” the female voice called out from somewhere above.

  “Be right up, dear,” responded Steve.

  With a sigh, he rose and pulled on his slacks and shirt as he pushed his feet back into his shoes.

  Oh God! Was he going to leave me here? The prospect of spending countless days with my legs behind my head and his cum drying on my stomach filled me with a horrified dread. It would be worse than the darkness of the closet. He began to turn away.

  No! No!

  “Oops, can’t forget this!”

  He returned and unwound the tie about my ankles. My legs flopped down onto the sofa.

  “I’ll be back to clean you up later.”

  With that he left.

  I thought being locked in the dark closet was hell, but this was somehow worse. At least in the closet, I could trick my mind into thinking this all wasn’t real. In the darkness, you can make your own world, your own rules. Out here, I was forced to endure reality. The sound of the TV, the feel of the sofa, even the smell of the beer… it was all so terribly… normal. Even Steve, monster that he was… was he really any different than most men? Drinking beer, playing video games, complaining about his day. Instead of masturbating, he fucked a sex doll… he fucked me.

  Surrounded by mirrors, I was too low on the sofa to capture a glimpse of my reflection. Being unable to confirm with my eyes what I already knew in my mind was its own special torture.

  What felt like hours later, Steve returned. Dressed in pajama bottoms and a gray t-shirt, he quickly passed a warm washcloth over my stomach, cleaning up his mess before grabbing me around the waist and lifting me off the sofa. I was bent in half, facing downward. My hair draped over my face. For the first time, I saw its color. Bleach blonde.

  ‘I used to be a brunette,’ I thought.

  ‘I still am a brunette,’ I ruthlessly corrected in my mind. This body may have blonde hair, but Jane… Jane has brown hair.

  “Steve! Where the hell are you? Are you coming to bed?”

  “Yes! I left the TV on down here. I’m coming.”

  He opened the closet and tossed me in before slamming the door shut. I could hear him lock the door and the sound of his hurried footsteps up the stairs.

  Instead of being placed standing or leaning against the clothes. I had been tossed naked onto the floor. My nose was buried inside an old sneaker. Something hard and sharp poked the back of my left thigh. My stomach still itched from the remnants of his cum not fully wiped away.

  A thunk then a soft whirring noise. The air conditioner had just turned on.

  Twen
ty-one days of captivity and two weeks since Steve had taken my virginity.

  Two weeks of lying naked on the floor of this closet.

  I don’t know how long since my accident.

  It was becoming harder and harder to remember who I am… or was.

  My name is Jane.

  Like my body, my mind is starting to become still. Numb. Motionless. Worn out from the constant spin of my thoughts, I now think of nothing. I don’t wonder how or why I got here. I don’t think of my family. I don’t even have random songs or scenes from old television shows pop into my head anymore. Like this closet, my mind is dark.

  The only thing I still cling to is my task of counting the days by the whir of the air conditioner. I wonder when I will stop doing that? At one hundred? One thousand? At what point will my mind finally join with my new body and become nothing more than an empty vessel?

  This time I didn’t even hear his footsteps or the turn of the lock.

  I wasn’t listening.

  The door opened, and my little cocoon was flooded with bright, harsh light.

  “Fuck! Dammit. I forgot this is how I left you.”

  Reaching down, he pulled me out of the closet by my feet, dragging me along the dirt of the floor.

  Flinging me over his shoulder, I was carried out of the room and up the stairs.

  Unable to lift my head to truly look around, all I could see were the patterns of Persian throw rugs and polished hardwood floors. I could smell the clean scent of furniture polish. I couldn’t be certain, but it felt like I was in a rich home. He carried me up a second flight of stairs and into a large, cold room. Leaning down, I was placed on a toilet. Looking around I could see I was in a bathroom. It was extremely sleek with white marble floors and counters. Steve leaned over and started the shower.

  “Let’s get this wig off you. I have a new one anyway.”

  I could feel him prodding at the back of my neck. Then the sensation of having a Band-Aid torn off my skin. He stepped back, and my tangled bleach blonde hair hung limp and loose from his grasp.

  “Crap. Thank god I got a new one. Looks like I got jizz all over this one. Have to make sure to bury it in the trash outside so the wife doesn’t see.” Steve chuckled at his own conniving.