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He shook his head.
I took another bite, and more water to try to calm down so I could talk without going into blubbering sobbing fits. “No? Youwantme to get pregnant?”
He shook his head again.
“Are you sterile?” God, I hoped so. These were genes you didn’t want to spread. I didn’t want to give birth to another sociopath.
His eyes were cold as he stared at me. As far as he was concerned, the question and answer portion of the day was over. But I could see in his eyes I’d figured out the truth, and I felt relief wash over me. One less thing to worry about.
I finished my food without speaking again as he watched me. I didn’t know what else to say. I wasn’t sure what more he could take from me, but I knew he’d think of something if I pushed too hard. As it was, I wasn’t sure if I’d be in the cell longer now because of speaking.
When I finished eating, he took the tray and brushed my hair out of my face with his fingers. I leaned into him. I was ready to do anything he wanted, just to let me out.
The cell was bad because there was nothing to do, but it was worse because it meant I had been bad. I’d displeased him, and that was starting to matter to me. I’d fought the desire to please him, but I couldn’t help it. I knew what he was doing to me, but it didn’t change how I felt, how I longed for him to touch me.
“Please, take me out of here,” I whispered, as he ran his fingers through my hair. “Please.”
I stood, and he kissed me. I moved my arms around his neck, but he gently took my wrists and moved them down by my sides. Then the kiss was over and he was leaving again. He turned away, and I felt the panic bubbling over.
I’d made no progress. I’d just been a diversion, but it wouldn’t affect anything. What if he never forgave me for trying to kill him? What if he never let me out of the cell?
“No . . . please don’t leave me. I’ll be your whore. I’ll be whatever you want, please.”
I heard him punch in the combination code and then the click of freedom I couldn’t have, and he opened the door. He turned and smiled at me, the smile of victory. Then he let the door shut softly behind him.
Several days passed, the bleeding stopped, and I was still in the cell marking off the days. He’d supplied me with clothing again and my bathing supplies, but I chose to remain naked. I wasn’t sure if this was considered disobedience, but I was counting on his self-control slipping, that at some point he wouldn’t be able to stand not taking what was bare to his gaze.
But if it fazed him, he composed himself before entering my cell. He brought my food and bath stuff, looking at me, but nothing more.
On the seventh day I expected it to be over. I’d done my time, surely he would touch me again. I would let him, and then I would be rewarded and get to go back to the good cell. The room where I was favored. But day seven came and went without him making any move toward me.
I hadn’t built up the nerve to talk to him again since that one day. I was too afraid to change the routine. I wasn’t sure exactly what sins had mounted against me and if speaking was one of them.
I needed touch, comfort, something. I was losing my tenuous grip on sanity, on reality. Everything felt fuzzy, and sometimes I wasn’t sure if I was awake or asleep. I prayed it was a nightmare, and I’d wake up back in the good cell again. I’d stopped dreaming of escape because every part of me knew it wasn’t possible. My subconscious mind chose to spare me the torment of dangling carrots I couldn’t eat.
Instead I dreamed of the good cell, something I had some hope still of achieving. As the days slipped onward, I began to doubt I would ever get to go back there. Maybe what I’d done was so bad he could never forgive it.
I’d hoped being in the cell naked would entice him to come to me, that he wouldn’t be able to resist taking what he considered his. But nudity alone wasn’t cutting it. In an act of sheer desperation, I laid on my back in the middle of the room so every camera saw me. I spread my legs and touched myself. I didn’t know if the cameras had sound attached, and I wasn’t sure if I was moaning for his benefit or because I couldn’t help it.
It had been more than a week since I’d had an orgasm. In the short time I’d been in the good cell, he’d brought me to release so many times it made my head spin with it. Now as I stroked myself, I realized how much I missed the pleasure he gave me.
I was in the middle of possibly my third orgasm when the door came crashing open. Everything inside me said to stop. Run. I had no idea where I would run to, but instincts usually operate on the run principle.
Instead, I boldly met his eyes, my fingers slipping inside my pussy, daring him to respond in any way. I didn’t care how. He could fuck me or beat me. Any touch, any response from him would be welcome. But he stood there, his black eyes penetrating me, refusing to give me even anger in a physical manifestation.
He slammed the door behind him, and I stopped and moved to the corner. My heart was beating practically out of my chest, as slow dread started to creep over me. I’d wanted a reaction but now I was terrified I’d gotten one. I didn’t need him out of control and angry.
My desperation had made me stupid. Minutes ticked by like months, and then finally the door clicked open again. He brought in the things for me to bathe, and clothing. When he left it was the first time in longer than I could remember that I was relieved he hadn’t touched me.
I bathed quickly and put on the clothes. As I picked up the shirt, a book fell out. I backed away from it like it was poison. Was it a trick? I knew I didn’t get nice things in the cell. Or was it like the bandages? I didn’t know which was the correct thing to do, ignore the book or read it.
I slipped the sweatpants on and buttoned up the white top while staring at the new variable. The fabric felt weird against my skin after walking around so many days without clothing. Clothes made me feel like a person, and as a person I couldn’t deal with what I’d become. If I remained a naked animal, it was better, easier. But he was finished making my life easy.
After circling the book a few more times, I picked it up and moved back to my corner. The corner was the only spot that held comfort because I knew if I was there, there was a chance he’d open the door and come for me.
I blushed, recognizing the book’s title as something I’d read once in a much different time and place. I cracked the spine and started reading, knowing the contents would arouse me despite everything, but also knowing that if I didn’t read, I might never achieve absolution from my captor.
It didn’t take many pages before I noticed the first place a highlighter had been used over the text. The wordmasterglared back at me in bright sunshine yellow. At the next instance of the word, it was highlighted again. I flipped through the book to see hundreds of bright yellow rectangles. He’d probably stayed up an entire night doing it. Or spent days on the project, hacking away at it chunks at a time.
