AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He removed the toy and shut it off. It was dripping with her cum. He held it in front of her face, and she obediently opened her mouth and sucked it as he slid it in and out, until it was clean of her spendings . . .
When he returnedme to my room I knew why he’d been gone so long. He left me to go prepare my breakfast as I stared at the walls. He must have had his own dark room because there were large blown-up photographs on the walls. Photographs he’d just taken.
I tried not to look at them, but I couldn’t seem to tear my eyes away. I went to one wall and ran my fingertips over the picture. My legs were spread so wide, straining against the chains, the tip of the vibrator sticking out, my wetness glistening against my legs, and my face a cross between pleasure and torment.
EIGHT
Days bled into weeks and then into months, and then it was fall. The leaves were falling off the trees ushering us into winter as I continued marking off the days on the calendar.
Five months.
The first day forever ago when I’d been waiting for him on my knees was the turning point. Everything changed for me after that. I could still form coherent thoughts but all of them circled around how to please him. To make him smile at me. To get his eyes to soften when they looked into mine. The photographs on the walls taunted me. Over the months, a few more were added, some replacing Degas prints in the studio. Something about me changed in those photos. The first series he took still upset me sometimes because there was such a mixture of pleasure and pain.
He wouldn’t let me forget what I had been and what I’d become at his hands. He wanted me to see it like he saw it.
By July, the photos had changed, like they weren’t even me. Pain was dwarfed by pleasure, even when there were lash marks on my back, even on the occasions when there was blood. Whatever he did, it didn’t matter. I wanted it all.
I should have been repulsed by him. Intellectually I knew that was the proper response. It was the victim response. It was the response that would say to the world I wasn’t broken, even though I would have been in more pain that way. It was a mercy to be broken, to be his to the point that it was what I wanted.
If I hadn’t been reshaped and reformed into the docile little pet he wanted, I would have cowered and cringed away from him and screamed and cried. Sometimes I screamed and cried anyway, but only when the orgasm overtook me so strongly I could do nothing but empty my soul onto him.
I’d been out of the bad cell for months. I never went back there again. A few times I came close when he’d introduce something new and scary, but ultimately I obeyed whatever he wanted.
After awhile it stopped being about the cell and that perceived punishment. It became instead about him being disappointed in me. I only cared about his eyes and how they reflected me.
In the good cell the warm throbbing between my legs was almost constant. It didn’t matter what I was doing. Dancing, bathing, painting my fingernails. Because whatever I was doing, my thoughts rarely strayed far from him and memories of the last time he’d touched me. If I had been his obsession, he had become mine just as strongly.
Sometimes I imagined that when he left me in my rooms, when he was finished playing with me for the day, he went out with his friends and laughed and talked. Maybe he didn’t think about me at all. Or he watched television and wasn’t troubled with thoughts of me until some small mention, no doubt getting shorter and farther apart, would come up about my disappearance.
I had this image of him as some sort of almost Patrick Bateman fromAmerican Psycho. That he lived a double life. One side all privilege and creamy soft-white business cards with perfect fonts, the other blood and darkness. Monster and man.
I found myself wanting the monster because it was honest, a level of honesty most go their entire lives without confronting, always content to hide behind their social masks and business cards.
It was October. By now everything was about him, but at the same time I missed Halloween. The costumes, the parties, going out with my friends. Friends I’d forgotten, as if they’d died. I couldn’t see their faces anymore when I closed my eyes; I only saw him. That intense beauty that was almost painful to look at.
My fear had become so entwined with my arousal that I craved everything he did now. I could stay here forever. I wanted to. My family and friends, my career and colleagues, they were all shadows to me now.
I had the barest notion there had been police investigations, frantic searches, tearful panic over my going missing. I’d been a blurb on the national news, a tragic case of a young woman with a bright future and loyal fans. The speculation that a crazed fan had taken me, or someone who hated me.
Which category did my master fall into? Either? Neither? I’d never know. I’d long given up the hope he would ever speak to me.
But he didn’t have to use speech. Every touch, every caress, every lash of the whip, crop, or cane. It was all communication, a private conversation that no one else could intrude upon. Before, my life had only been words, shallow, meaningless words dripping from my mouth with no real content. Words for the sake of words to make me feel less alone in the world. But I had been alone.
Completely.
Then he took me and filled my world so much that even without words, I wasn’t alone. We were connected now so deeply that to lose him was to lose life itself. He was everything. We communicated on the primal level of touch. Dominance and submission. Master and slave. Nothing else was required.
I woke on the morning of Halloween with a vague sense of loss. I thought it was because of all I’d missed this year. Or because we were approaching the holidays, and suddenly time would have more form as I lost my first Halloween, my first Thanksgiving, my first Christmas and New Years, but that wasn’t it.
My alarm went off at 7:30 as it always did. I happened to glance over to find the door standing open.
I can’t describe in any rational way the panic that surged through me. What the hell was this? I hadn’t felt this way since the first day of my imprisonment when the blindfold had covered my eyes in that still silence, before I’d seen his face or felt his hands on my body.
Normally, he left me instructions with my last meal of the day for what he wanted the following day. I should have known something was wrong when he didn’t. Maybe I had. Maybe that was the gnawing feeling that had crept inside me.
I bathed in jasmine oil and got ready. At nine o’clock I was on my knees a few feet from the door, waiting for him. That’s when I looked up and noticed the keys. On a little table next to the door were a set of car keys.
If I took them, would the garage door be opened? Would I press the little button and hear the beeps to indicate which car? Could I leave?
