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Hell, maybe I should wreck the car so I have an excuse. The fact that I'm even thinking such crazy thoughts is a testament to how wrong I am now. I'm so... wrong. But if they took the collar off my throat and told me to leave, I would beg them to let me stay. There's no saving me anymore. My body, mind, and soul, have long been theirs.
And when I don't judge myself or think about how society would feel about this, how they might judge or pity me, I think I'm actually happy. But if I'm so happy, why am I so scared to go home so late?
Aside from what they've done to twist my mind, they truly have never harmed me. They've never lost their tempers with me. The only reason I've ever felt my life was in danger at their hands was because of what I know about their lack of remorse. They don't have the same leash on them that other people have.
It's not so much that they’re evil—at least not to me—it's that they’re wild. They’re like wild animals. You can work with a wild predatory animal every day for years... You can believe you've built trust, that the animal sees you as a friend. And then one day, out of nowhere, the tiger mauls you to death. This is what I worry about. That they'll get bored with me, and that one day that switch inside them will flip, and their predatory gaze will settle on me, and my number's up.
But I'm too fucked-up now to live outside their cage. I tried. I do believe they care for me, probably more than they've ever cared for anything besides each other. But am I fooling myself? Is it a false sense of security that every time I walk inside the tiger's cage, I'm certain I'm getting out alive?
Yet I’m sure I’m the equivalent of the serial killer's wife of two decades. He will never ever harm her. He will wear that mask and make her feel loved, and maybe she’s the one person who can make him feel anything. I like that feeling. Being that one person that someone cares about. There’s no other human being who can turn their gaze or hold their attention, and there’s a rush of power in that which I'm ashamed I like.
Even if they ever let me go, even if I somehow could go on without them, I would be lonely for the rest of my life. They have ruined me for any other relationship, no matter how healthy and good and true it might be. I've become twisted in the tangled vines of their darkness, and there’s nowhere left to go but down.
Maybe I should call and apologize, explain to them that I just lost track of time. I left my cell phone in the car and wonder if they've already tried to call or text. My hands shake as I fumble with the key fob to get into the Porsche. I stumble back as a hand with a foul smelling cloth goes over my mouth.
* * *
When I come to, a blindfold covers my eyes, and my hands are tied together over my head. I'm still wearing my sundress, but my shoes are gone. My bare feet are cold under the hard floor. I still feel foggy from the drugs. Why the fuck did they drug me? Did they really think that was necessary?
“Please... I'm sorry...” I whimper. The tears are already rolling down my cheeks. “I... I lost track of the time... please forgive me, Master.”
A hand grips my throat, hard. Harder than normal. I gasp and choke for air, struggling against the ropes.
A laugh. “Master? My, what fucked-up games has my frigid little bitch been playing?”
My heart sinks. Andrew.
“You LIED to me,” he hisses in my ear as he rips off the blindfold.
I look frantically around. We’re in an abandoned meat-packing plant. The ropes tied around my wrists are looped up over a hook that once held dead animal carcasses.
“You were never going to be homeless. You tricked me into caring again and coming to your rescue, and you were gone. Why didn't you answer my calls and messages? WHY? Too busy laughing with a new lover? You obviously found someone very well off with that car you're driving,” he sneers.
He looks crazed. I have no idea what to say to him. He won't believe me if I tell him I was kidnapped. What kind of kidnapper lets their victim go and furnishes them with a Porsche? I'm still trying to process the fact that I'm not tied up for punishment from my masters but for some kind of revenge from my ex-boyfriend.
It sickens me to think I voluntarily dated this piece of shit for as long as I did. He was a mean asshole and bad in bed, but I didn't think he was a violent criminal. I hold onto the small thread of hope that he's bluffing or can't bring himself to do whatever it is he's psyching himself up to do.
“Andrew, this is crazy. It's not what you think. You need to untie me.” It takes everything in me not to say the word Master again. Not because I would ever think of Andrew in that way but because I've been so conditioned these past few months to respond with that word when afraid, when tied up, when at someone else's mercy.
And then I see the knife, and the real panic begins.
“Andrew... please.”
“Andrew, please,” he mimics in a high voice. “This is the only way you'll learn not to be such a lying fucking bitch.” He slices my sundress in several places and rips it off me. Then he does the same with my panties. I'm not wearing a bra for him to destroy.
He goes for my collar, fumbling for a clasp or way to get it off. “Why won't this come off? Why is it locked on?”
The collar. It's become so much a part of me that I forget it's there half the time. I silently pray Seven and Declan are on their way. But how long will they wait before thinking I've tried to run and come for me? And how do I even know there's really a tracking device inside? How would a tracking device be inside?
The tears slide down my cheeks as I realize it was probably just another mindfuck—just something to scare me, to train me and make me obey. What if there isn't a tracking device? And even if there is, what if they haven't gotten concerned enough about my absence to bother coming after me? I could be dead long before they even leave the house.
Andrew takes a step back and stares at the collar, then back at me, then at the collar again, then back at me as he finally puts two and two together.
“Oh. My. God. You fucking whore. This is delicious. I'd fuck you before I killed you, but we both know you'll be dry, you frigid fucking bitch. How on earth did you get some man to play kinky sex games with you when you can't even come? Does he just keep you around for blow jobs? I recall you're actually talented there. Maybe I'll let you blow me before I cut you up.”
I'm crying seriously now—not just a few delicate tears sliding down my cheeks but full-on sobbing. I no longer have just basic fear of punishment for getting home late, but terror as the reality of who has me and why he's taken me has finally clicked inside my drug-addled brain.
“Andrew, please... please, I'm sorry, please... don't hurt me.”
