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Instead of explanations, the book contained rules and punishments. Much of it I’d figured out already with regards to punishment, but to see it in black and white only confirmed my suspicions and left me no excuses to disobey and then claim ignorance.
As I’d already known, obedience would keep me in his good favor and in the rooms I presently occupied. I had suspected as much . . . and yet there was always the fear he might move me back to the bad cell on a whim. But he’d written on the crisp white-lined pages that he wouldn’t as long as I tried to submit, and I trusted him to keep his word.
If I’d learned anything over the weeks of my captivity, it was that obedience equaled reward, and disobedience equaled punishment. He never lashed out in anger. He was always in control, both of me and of himself. It made me put faith in him that ultimately, if I followed the rules, he wouldn’t harm or kill me.
Masturbation wasn’t allowed for any reason. Sexual pleasure would come from him and him alone. He mentioned the erotica. He wanted me to read it, at least one book a week, but I wasn’t allowed to touch myself. If I did, I would be punished.
Punishment was as I thought and as he’d confirmed earlier with only a look. I would be sent to the cell for any infractions. Each incarceration would be longer than the one before it. There was no sliding scale based on the level of disobedience.
I had expected the murder attempt would land me in the cell longer than if I’d just tried to escape. Or that trying to escape would offer me a longer punishment than if I’d refused to obey some small whim of his. But it was all the same.
Sayingnooffered the same level of punishment as trying to take his life. The next time would be three weeks and then four. Eventually I could end up withering away in that cell if I didn’t obey him.
In some sense he offered me freedom if I wanted it. All I had to do was refuse him and he wouldn’t touch me. I would have nothingness and food that no longer held flavor, but I would be free of his touch.
I knew I’d never take that offer because the freedom he offered me was the kind I’d always loathed. My mind was too full and in need of stimulation to be locked away in the cell forever.
The extremeness of the punishments ensured I wouldn’t rebel. I’d already decided I would do anything he wanted without question because I didn’t want the cell, and I never wanted to look at chicken noodle soup or crackers again.
I had no doubts he could follow through. If the wait became too long for him, he wouldn’t shorten my punishment. He’d kill me or take another slave before he broke his own rules.
He could already have other slaves and I’d have no way of knowing it. It would explain the ease with which he could resist me while I was being punished, despite his obviously strong sexual desire otherwise.
His entire fortress-like home could be a camp for slaves. The thought sent a white-hot bolt of jealousy through me.
I knew it was an inappropriate response. I shouldn’t feel jealousy that someone else might call him master and spread their legs for him. I should feel pity for the others he might have taken.
Twenty pages of hand-written text was all it took to specifically lay out the rest of my life for me. There was no room given for interpretation. If he made me come, it was reward. If he whipped me, it was reward.
Any attention or physical contact was reward, no matter the nature of the contact. It was almost appalling to see it written out for me so plain and naked. But I’d already known it. I’d arched up toward him as the riding crop had bitten into my skin, and I’d been thankful to have something instead of nothingness. I’d gotten wet from his gentle ministrations as he’d cleaned and bandaged the wounds he’d inflicted on me.
I was his now beyond safe denial. Beyond right and wrong.
The rest of the notebook contained protocol, daily rituals and the words he wanted to fall from my lips. My training was about to begin in earnest.
He left one more meal for me that evening and brushed my cheek lightly with his fingertips. He lifted the back of my shirt to inspect my skin.
I tensed, wondering if removing the bandages was considered disobedience, if I would earn three weeks for something so simple and small. My body shook from fear that I wouldn’t have the chance to prove I could obey him.
“Shhhhh.” He left a gentle kiss on my back, and then he left me alone with my food. I cried with relief.
The next morning my alarm went off at seven-thirty. He would be there at nine. I went through the list, doing what he’d laid out in the notebook, preparing myself for his arrival. I didn’t leave anything out because I knew he’d be watching from the dark room with all the monitors.
I bathed in the bath oil he wanted, wore the makeup he wanted, fixed my hair the way he wanted. At nine o’clock I was in place, exactly as he’d instructed, smelling of jasmine and waiting.
.. . The door opened and he walked into the room, already undressed, his erection swaying as he moved. She was naked on her knees with her legs spread wide. Her hands rested on the floor on either side, her palms facing up in supplication.
The lines in the sand had been drawn, and it was real now. Before, she’d had the small comfort of not accepting. Holding onto some tiny internal piece of her own identity, some vague hope of escape or rescue.
For weeks in her mind she’d thought only of appeasing him for survival, to hold onto herself, so she could think of getting away. Now she was his. The smile on his face said he knew it too. His patience had paid off.
He stood in front of her and her hands went around to grip his ass, pulling him toward her, as if all she wanted was for him to fill some part of her. She wrapped her lips around his cock and greedily sucked him as he ran his fingers through her hair.
He pulled out of her suddenly, and she whimpered.
“Did I do something wrong?”
In reply, he pulled out the blindfold. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. All she could think was that she’d missed something. She’d said or done something wrong. Maybe she’d bitten him without meaning to.
