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“Come, Pretty Toy,” he says.
Then he just walks out of the kitchen. He doesn't grab me and drag me along like some hostage. He simply expects that I will get up and follow him. And I will because every door and window is locked. Everything is shatterproof. There’s an alarm. Resisting or running is pointless, and it will only make him angry. I bite back another sob as I slide off the kitchen bar stool and follow him out of the room and the rest of the way down the hallway to that steel door with the security panel that leads down to hell.
He inputs a code, and the door slides open. There’s a wide, sweeping motion of his arm in that gallantafter yougesture. I'm sure I'm about to faint. A wave of dizziness moves over me, and my legs don't want to support my body anymore, but I take a deep breath, and it passes.
He waits.
I feel the tears sliding down my cheeks again. But I know they don't move him—at least not in the way I would want them to. The outline of his erection pressing against the fabric of his jeans tells me that much. I walk in front of him, down the winding stairs into the dungeon.
I'm already on my knees when he gets down there, mostly because I can't hold myself up. And really, it's more like child's pose in yoga. I need to breathe, and this is the only way I can get deep enough breaths into my body without hyperventilating. It's only a bonus that I know it will please him and look like submission. Maybe it is submission. I know it's fear.
His footsteps stop next to me, and then he sits on the ground. I flinch when he strokes my hair and then my back. Over and over again. This is the last thing I expected from him after what happened upstairs—gentleness. And I know it's a lie, but I don't care. I will drink it up like it's the last drop of water on earth. I need just another few minutes of peace before he hurts me.
Oh god, what is he going to do to me?
“I'm not going to harm you,” he finally says.
“But I thought...” I shut my mouth because what the fuck am I doing? If he's decided not to hurt me, I don't want to argue him out of it.Be smarter, Kate.
“I'm going to train you. Don't misunderstand. This isn't kindness or a long lost conscience rearing its head. It's just the best choice for the outcome I want. Punishment and pain are always an option. And I’ll use them as necessary, but I want to own every part of you. Completely. If I use too much pain, your fear will drive you to try to escape again. I would never truly own you. But if I inspire gratitude... you're mine forever.”
Well, at least he's laid out his evil plan, so I don't have to drive myself crazy trying to figure out what's going on. Even as I think these thoughts, I know he's calculated the choice of even telling me this. And already I feel gratitude moving through me, unbidden. When one goes from thinking they're going to die to thinking they're going to be tortured, to a good breakfast and the absence of those things... gratitude is the only response one is capable of.
I know I shouldn't feel it. He's keeping me as a slave. He took me away from my life—such that it was. None of this is okay, but I feel so grateful anyway as if everything he's done so far has been one giant favor. And the pleasure and desire that repeatedly winds its way through me at his touch and the promise of it makes it seem true.
The words, “Thank you, Master,” slip out of me so fast I can't stop them.
He chuckles at this. He has me exactly where he wants me. I think hewantedme to jab that needle into him no matter what he says about his disappointment at me failing histest. He's not disappointed. It's all going according to plan.
Even if I had experience with psychopaths, it wouldn't matter. I’m one hundred percent sure that there’s not another human alive who would make the choices this man makes. He possesses the most terrifying combination of brilliance, evil, and patience. And I’m the unlucky lottery winner of his attentions.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I whisper.
“That question was a long time coming. Because I want to.”
There’s a long silence. He finally speaks again. “Were you expecting a sad childhood story? Did you want to understand what turned me into such a soulless beast? Would that make it all okay? If you could point to some moment in time where I was a sad, scared little boy? Well, sorry to disappoint, Pretty Toy. That's not my story. My parents gave me everything I could ever want. I started out having everything, and then I doubled that wealth. I’ve acquired every object I’ve ever wanted, and now I've acquired you. My living, breathing fuck doll.”
He stands, then I feel his hands wrapped around mine, helping me off the floor. He leads me to the bondage bed at the far end of the dungeon and lays me down on my back. I watch as he goes to the large box where he got the vibrator the last time. He returns with a ball gag.
“Open,” he says when he's beside me.
I open my mouth, and he presses the black rubber ball into place, fastening the straps behind my head. Then he presses a button on a remote, and the classical music I'd almost forgotten about begins to fill the dungeon. It's all so... civilized.
He doesn't restrain me. On a certain level, it's overkill. He doesn't need to tie me down unless it pleases him. The door at the top of the stairs is locked. There’s no way out. I could jump off the bed and try to run, but he might change his mind about punishment if I do that. And I would eventually get tired. He only has to wait me out. He's already shown how patient and willing to wait he is.
The gag is worse than the restraints. With restraints, I can still beg. Even though I know there’s nothing human in him, it still seems to amuse him and please him enough to offer me small indulgences. But I don't even have the power to beg now.
I watch warily as he lies beside me. He props himself on his side and observes me. I look away from his cold gray stare. It's too much to have that gaze leveled on me, taking me in, analyzing, deciding my fate.
“Look at me, Pretty Toy,” he says. There’s a warning wrapped inside the command.
I take a breath and look back at him, trying to hold his gaze. I flinch when he brushes my hair out of my eyes. Then he spends a small eternity just stroking my breasts and watching my reactions. He massages them first gently, then more roughly. He pinches my nipples into hard points and then releases the pressure.
Eventually, the tension eases from my body. I become soft and yielding. I find myself pressing into his hand, moaning behind the gag, my eyes drifting closed as my body arches into each caress.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
These words unlock the need between my legs as the arousal pulses to life again.
