AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“It's not an act.”
“Of course it is. Everything is an act. Everything is a game,” our captor says. “Ready for lunch, pets? You've been so good I didn't even drug it this time.”
Bottles of water are dropped through the slot. Since Seven is hurt, I go over to the food slot and take the plates as they come through. Both plates are white this time. It's ham and cheese sandwiches, pickles, and potato chips. Is it really lunchtime?
I know it's at least day because of my time outside the cell, the windows we passed.
We eat experimentally as if we don't trust our captor's assurances about the state of the food, but there really are no drugs this time. So he must not be coming in. In fact, several days pass without him coming in or even speaking to us except to announce food so one of us can go get it as it's passed through the slot.
We’re fed three times a day, and the food matches the time of day. Typical breakfast, lunch, and dinner fare seem to be served at the appropriate times.
I find myself weirdly grateful to our captor for this way to mark time. Each night, Seven and I sleep curled up together on the mattress. We turn the bathroom light out to sleep and lie together in total darkness.
In this darkness and privacy, Seven touches me. We never had a conversation about it. He didn't ask. I didn't say no. And he hasn't asked for the favor to be returned. I feel somehow shy about touching him back. So I just lie there under the cover of darkness as he caresses me and kisses my throat.
He starts out innocent each time. Safe places. My hair and face. My arms and legs. But he always finds his way to my breasts and then between my thighs, which I spread open for him every night without fail. He strokes me until I come, trying to keep my desperate panting and moans quiet but always failing. Then he whispers in my ear “Sleep.”
And I do.
My dreams are intense and erotic. Usually it's Seven I dream about. But sometimes it's our captor. I try not to think about those dreams. Seven is okay. Our captor isn't. Even so, the dreams with cold light gray eyes are more intense because they are more wrong.
What I do for Seven each day isn't sexual. I take care of his back. I help him bathe without getting the bandages wet, and then I change them, applying more ointment to the whiplashes that still need them.
Each morning there are new clothes for Seven and the old clothes have been taken out. There seems to be a rotation of three pairs of jeans and T-shirts for him since he doesn't sleep naked. He never wears the T-shirt anymore. I think he only wears the jeans because he doesn't want me to feel threatened by his near-constant erection around me.
I've slept through this strange clothing exchange every night but one. One night I heard the door slide open. I held my breath. No light ever came on, which makes me wonder if our captor is using night vision goggles. He never touched me. I just heard a few soft sounds, and then he was gone.
SIX
It's the fifth day of this routine. We just had our breakfast. Seven is in the bathroom running a bath in the large jacuzzi tub. When he steps out into the cell, the bandages are gone. There will be scars, but he's healed and no longer in any pain. And thankfully, they didn't get infected.
“Come take a bath,” he says. I think I hear an unspokenwith mein there.
I've grown to not only trust Seven but to feel comfortable with him. I no longer try to hide my body from his hungry gaze. I'm not sure why our captor hasn't escalated things, why he hasn't touched me again, or why he hasn't made Seven fuck me for his amusement again. And while I'm grateful, there are the dreams that say there’s an animal part of me that wants more to happen—that is ready for more to happen, even though the civilized part of me rebels.
It’s only in the absence of the sexual demands of our captor that I learn to crave it. To want it. Maybe it's partly because of the way Seven has unknowingly stoked this fire within me each night as he touches me, and I open and surrender to his questing hands. I don't know why Seven does it. I think it's some sort of strange comfort.
Or maybe he wants me too much. Maybe fucking me that first time has stoked a fire in him that now won't go out, either. Maybe he reasons that giving me pleasure is less evil than taking it from me. After all, what does he get out of this arrangement?
I get up and follow Seven into the bathroom. He strips off his jeans and gets into the tub. He crooks a finger at me and points to the water. The way he looks at me now is entirely carnal. He doesn't want to just take a bath. And neither do I.
I climb into the tub with him, leaning back against his chest. His erection presses against my lower back.
“Seven?”
His hand clamps over my mouth.
“Shhh. Listening devices, remember?”
I nod, and he pulls his hand away.
“Master?” I think if I quickly correct my error, our captor might not punish me for the mistake.
I feel Seven's cock go harder beneath me. He may be upset by my degradation on a purely moral level. But he likes it when I use that word. He likes that word directed at him. It turns him on. It doesn't mean he wants it exactly—especially if he thinks I don't want it—but itdoesexcite him, which makes me feel just a little bit better about it. Because it excites me, too.
“Why do you think he's doing this?” I ask. We both know I don't mean why is he holding us captive.He's a psychodoesn't really need further explanation. No, the question is why is he just feeding us and leaving us alone, not taunting us, not messing with us. Is he bored? I remember he said smart people don't get bored, and I know he thinks of himself as smart.
“I'm not sure. But I don't like it. I don't think we can trust this peace and safety.”
