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Spittle leaked from her mouth, her consciousness ebbing slightly until the burning ache and throb caused by the clamps became everything. The clamps, the pain, his voice. “You will obey.” Tears fell without reprieve as the pain continued in time with his rules. She couldn’t take it. She needed it to stop, but she couldn’t move.
Panic welled within her, her heart hammering faster with the roar of blood in her ears as the hopelessness of her situation was once more driven home. She was trapped. Stuck until he chose to let her out. Her brain felt hot, fear flooding her body as she realised once more exactly how helpless she was.
No one was coming for her.
There was nothing she could do to make him stop.
Nothing.
Her jaw ached from the guard and straps, her body felt raw. Owner placed a small device on the floor. Pressing a button, she heard his voice echo before the pain began again. Burning, ripping, agony.
The bastard.
No, he couldn’t do this to her. He couldn’t. Anything but that.
While she’d been begging, he’d been fiddling with one of his apps, the ones which meant… her eyes sought him desperately as her fears were realised through blurring and blackening vision. He was leaving.
No!
He couldn’t leave!
If he left, there was no telling how long she’d be alone, how long this torture would last. She couldn’t take it anymore. It had to stop. She’d do anything if it would just stop. Her body strained against the restraints, but even she felt how weak her efforts were.
Then he was gone.
Pain once more became the only way to measure the passage of time, but even pain began to blur as conscious thought became hazy.
Sweat trickled down her fevered skin as the torture stretched into eternity.
‘I will obey,’she thought along with the next announcement.‘I will kneel. He is my owner. I am his property. I will obey…’…
…“Are you okay?” Monica’s voice stirred her from the flashback. She sucked in a breath. Her fingernails had dug into the chair so hard she knew there’d be marks. More marks. The furniture was littered with them, but not all the scratches had been made by terror.
Earlier she had been so determined to use his name, in her mind at least, but that question, the scent of his coffee, had triggered something, memories of him making her repeat it, over and over again.
He was Owner.
That was his name.
“I-I can’t,” she whispered, trying her best to suppress the trembling that had the table vibrating from where her knee rested against the leg. She grasped her leg, trying to still the slightest rattle of the china plate holding the cookies.
The interview had been going well. She’d done as she’d been told when first the possibility of her story being published was presented. She kept things vague, didn’t go into details, yet spoke of how he beat her into submission and forced her into servitude.
Monica’s questions had been gentle, trying to tempt details out of her about the man who held her, what she’d endured, details, she always wanted to hear more, hung onto her every word, but she never felt forced into answering.
“That’s okay. You did really well. I have enough, but…” she paused as if wondering if she should continue, after a moment she nodded to herself, “have you thought of a book deal? Your story, your whole story. It could reach millions, and help people find help. I could write it with you, help you.”
For a moment, Ivy was too stunned to speak, but eventually, she shook her head. She couldn’t relive that. She had no choice when the memories came flooding back. Not deliberately thinking about it kept her sane. Telling her story, beginning to end, she wasn’t strong enough for that.
Instead of answering, she said the only other thought her mind could latch on to. “I’m opening a shelter for men and women who are trying to escape abusive situations. Safe living, access to a live-in therapist and life coach, support, and classes in finance and budgeting, to aid those who have been forced into helplessness to regain control. I’m still a short time from being ready to open the doors, but everything is signed and arranged.”
“So is that why you’re telling your story now, to promote your new business?”
Feeling the judgement, she shook her head. “It’s non-profit. Its sole purpose is to help. But no. I recently received a threat from someone trying to blackmail me with information they’d managed to get from my abduction. By telling my story, I take away their power.”
“It’s so close to your wedd—Oh, is someone using the publicity of your wedding to lean on you for money?”
“Shows how much they know. I’ve used almost everything I own for my new ventures.” She wasn’t about to discuss the other business. The problem with the media is they liked to suggest BDSM lifestyles were synonymous with abuse. They’d find a way to link the two somehow, find a reason to twist it into damning words. BDSM was all about risk-aware consensual kink, safety, and the well-being and growth of everyone involved, while exploring passions and kinks people sometimes didn’t understand, and thus judged.
