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“Do you keep… pigs down here?” I scrabble with my fingers for a grip against the stone.
“No,” is all he says as he continues descending, his voice echoing back to me. I don’t move. And then I take a step backward.
“What’s down there?” I hate the way the stone amplifies and multiplies my quivering voice.
“Follow,” he commands. “Follow or we return upstairs, and you kneel.”
I shake my head, then realize it’s all but blackout dark down here, and he can’t see it. “No. Neither.”
“You are not a seedling,” he growls. “You must choose. Choose to see what is at the bottom of these stairs or go back up, and you kneel.”
Jesus Christ, what kind of choice is that?
My heart starts beating even faster. He’s gotta be kidding.
He stays silent.
Another absolutely horrific straight-out-of-a-horror movie scream comes from down below.
Yup, that’s it. I turn around and fly back up the stairs.
The exhilaration of escaping whatever horror is down below is equaled only by the novelty of feeling my hair flying from how fast I’m running. Me. With my own two legs and no motorized assistance.
It’s a wild, giddy sensation.
Until the pang in my side hits because damn, I’m not really sure what the limits of this new body are, and sprinting up ten flights of stairs all at once might not yet be within its endurance radius. Yet, anyway.
At least when I’m huffing for air by the monster’s big, sturdy chair at the head of the large dining table, it really doesn’t feel that much like giving in to drop to my knees.
I am exhausted, after all.
And if him feeding me off his plate does make me feel a little like a pet, and him the human master… well, considering the situation, can I blame him?
By the time I’m back upstairs and on my knees, yup, I’m ready to blame him again.
Especially when he feeds me from his leather-padded fingers, each piece of surprisingly good-tasting meat speared by those sharp, sharp claws.
It feels like taking bites of meat off the tip of a knife.
I glare up at him after chewing an especially juicy bite. I need a napkin. I’m making a mess of myself. But when I try to wipe my mouth with my forearm, which is really the only thing available to me considering there aren’t exactly any napkins around—the beast just lets out a low, disapproving growl.
Then he leans down and licks my chin free of juice himself.
I’m so stunned, I stay still and let it happen.
Then he goes right back to feeding me the next bite from his claw-tip.
And I… well, I eat.
I consider briefly going on hunger strike.
But won’t that just end up with another march down to the basement and whatever terrors live down there?
Plus, while being on my knees might be a little humiliating, I am free of the heavy collar. I don’t know if I could trust—okay, scratch that. I’m not entirely naïve—obviously I can’t trust him. I’ve lived long enough to know that no one is good, or kind. Not really. Not deep down, at least as far as I’ve ever seen. No matter how much I’ve wanted to believe so and given person after person the benefit of the doubt, waiting and believing the best of them…
I’ve been disappointed and hurt in so many ways.
So, I’m obviously not going to go around believing anything this “guy” says, even if he promises to set me free someday. But, like the best of them, I can still play along. Having been so naïve for much of my life, I think I can still play a believable enough version of the sweet ingénue.
It’s a tricky balance—you can’t be agreeable all the time. Or be a doormat. That’s too easy, and easy isn’t fun for the type of manipulator who really likes to play with their food, which this guy obviously does. Plus, it’s not believable.
So I’ll keep pushing back, but only to a point.
This beast seems to like it when his prey gives him a run for his money.
But it’s obvious that if he’s keeping whatever creatures are down in that basement in a state that has them screaming in that kind of agony, there’s no true kindness in him.
Maybe just enough kindness to want his “consort” willing enough to keep that monstrous cock of his wet.
After holding the heavy glass to my mouth so I can drink some cold, pure water, he spears another piece of meat that’s especially dripping. “Eat, and suck the juices off my fingers.”
He holds it suspended over my mouth so that I have to rise on my knees to reach it, and then he teases by holding it a little further away still.
I glare at him until a noise I suspect to be a chuckle rumbles out of his giant chest, and he plops the morsel into my mouth. He immediately retracts his claw from the meat, but his thumb remains in my mouth.
