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It was a book I’d once read and gotten off on, and I still got off on it, only now, it was true. A true story about me. Reading it made me ache to touch myself again, but I didn’t. I knew he must be watching, and I didn’t want to be caught again. I’d been in the bad cell for two weeks. Much longer and I wasn’t going to be able to hold onto any of my sanity.
The book was a slim volume, something that could be read in a few hours if you didn’t dog-ear the pages and stop to masturbate. Within minutes of finishing it, I heard the key code being depressed on the other side and the door opening. He hadn’t come with food, though I was hungry, and for a minute my pulse pounded at the idea that he might be there to take me back to the other room.
He approached me and stopped a few steps away from where I stood waiting in my corner. I moved my hands up to the buttons of the white artist’s smock. He shook his head at me, and I let my hands fall to my sides.
He started to leave. What the hell did he want?
“Please . . . don’t leave me here.”
Normally he turned at least to look at me, but this time he didn’t acknowledge my voice. Instead, he punched the numbers into the keypad. I wasn’t ever getting out of there.
Then I knew what he wanted from me. It would be obvious to any thinking person.
There was a time when it would have been difficult, if not impossible for me to say the words, but I was desperate and I hadn’t lied when I’d said I would be anything he wanted me to be.
“Master, please.”
He’d gotten as far as opening the door, and he stopped, letting it fall back and latch shut. Then he turned toward me, a slow smile spreading over his face. Yes. That was what he wanted. I was getting out.
Adrenaline hummed through my veins. Whatever it took, I was getting out.
He crossed the floor slowly, and then he was unbuttoning my shirt.
.. . She leaned into him as he removed her top and cupped her breasts, pinching her nipples painfully. In the time before, she would have cried out at the sensation. Now she was just glad to be getting sensation at all, even if it hurt. His mouth latched onto her breast, and her breathing deepened as he swirled his tongue over her flesh, soothing where he’d just hurt her.
She gripped his shoulders as he stripped the sweatpants from her body. She never wanted to wear these clothes again. He pushed her to her knees; she fumbled with the fly of his pants. Then she was sucking him, desperately seeking to please him enough that he would forgive her for her former sins.
He stroked his fingers through her hair, comforting her, urging her onward, and then he pulled out of her.
“Did I do something wrong?”
In response, he positioned her on the concrete floor on her hands and knees facing away from him, spreading her legs slightly. She could hear him rifling through his pants on the floor, and then he was on his knees behind her.
His fingers found her clit, and he stroked her. She moved back, trying to grind harder into him. It had been so long since he’d touched her like this. She was willing to do anything to make sure he never stopped for so long again. She panted, and a moan escaped her throat.
“Please . . . yes . . . ” she whimpered.
He kept going until she came and screamed out her release, sobbing with relief that he was finally touching her again. Then she turned to see him squirting something out of a tube.
Lubricant.
She started to crawl away from him, back into her corner. “No, Master, please.”
He shrugged, then stood and moved toward the door again. He refused to give her the peace of doing anything without her permission, no matter what a joke it was. She panicked.
“Don’t leave me here again. I can’t take it. I can’t take anymore of this. I’ve been here two weeks, please.”
He turned back to her and held up the lube, a question in his eyes.
She nodded and moved back into the position he’d placed her in. She still wasn’t sure this would earn her a ticket out of the cell, especially since she’d fought him.
She couldn’t help tensing when he approached her. He stroked her back over and over, his fingertips playing lightly over her skin. “Shhhh,” he soothed. “Shhhh.”
She began to calm. He’d refused for weeks to speak to her, and although this wasn’t exactly speech, it was communication. It was sound. She began to cry over the tiny crumb he gave her and relaxed further.
He prodded her entrance with one lubed finger, as he continued to stroke her back with his other hand. She didn’t resist. She cried out as the finger eased inside her, and he went more slowly, more gently.
She found she was grateful for that. It was small, but it was something. He continued with the one finger until her body got used to the sensation, and the burning pain ebbed away. Then he repeated the process with two fingers while her fear mounted higher.
