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My legs shake with the force of each release, and I bite my tongue to stop myself from begging please, no more. Please, please, Master, stop. But I hold these words in. I don't want to be punished. But in its own way, this is becoming a different kind of punishment.
Still, I don't allow myself to beg.
Some of the toys vibrate, some of them don't. One feels similar to oral sex against my clit. Some are larger than others, stretching me as they make me come for him. Sometimes he stimulates my clit, and other times he brings my orgasm out from the inside, training me to produce these new and exciting pleasurable pulses at his command.
I've lost count of how many orgasms I've had.
The next thing that slides inside me is his cock. He's on top of me, his movements so achingly slow that even with all the pleasure I've already had, I find myself arching up into him.
He leans close to my ear. “This time, you will come.”
I've come so many times since we've been down here that it's nothing to my body to do it just one more time for his cock. He shudders and releases inside me as my pussy grips onto him, milking him while riding out my own orgasm.
Finally, he collapses on top of me. And then he's peppering kisses over my throat, moving to my mouth, causing me to jump as his tongue slips inside. His kiss is consuming, possessing. I didn't expect him to kiss me, and I'm so confused by how it makes me feel.
After a few more minutes, I hear him collecting and moving things about. Water runs in an attached room, probably a bathroom, as he cleans things up. He returns and unties me but leaves the blindfold in place. I feel unsteady as he helps me to stand.
“Come with me,” he says. He guides me slowly across the floor and up the stairs. When we leave the dungeon I sense we're moving back down that same hallway.
I think he's returning me to the cell, but there’s a shift in direction. Then we're climbing another set of stairs. Another hallway. After what just happened in the dungeon, I feel so tired, I'm afraid I'll collapse. But before I can, he picks me up and lays me down on a bed.
He locks a chain around my ankle and removes the blindfold. He covers me with blankets. I'm dimly aware that he's brought me up to what must be his room.
“Sleep.”
He pulls the shades down and turns out the light, then leaves me alone in his bed. I haven't been awake that long, but after all that happened this morning, I’m so exhausted that it doesn't take very long for sleep to claim me.
SEVEN
Several days pass, and a routine is formed. I sleep in my captor's bed with him each night. He fondles me. He fucks me. He lies behind me and wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me into him—the little spoon—as though we’re normal lovers. As though I mean something to him. This intimate cuddling is what unmakes me the most; it's the thing that makes it harder and harder to think of escape.
He's trained me to wake him with a blow job each morning and to swallow like a good girl. When I complete this task, he rewards me with those words which fill me with an inappropriate pride each time I hear them. After that, he feeds me, bathes me, and then takes me to the dungeon where he forces orgasm after orgasm out of me until he's satisfied.
It's easier to please him with blow jobs. In the dungeon, he never seems to want to allow my body rest. It's his fingers, his tongue, the vibrator, his cock. Over and over until I've lost track of the orgasms. And I'm supposed to count them. When I forget to count or lose track of how many, he punishes me.
His punishments hurt but haven't been overly harsh. I've never felt I was in true physical danger from them.
And every day he spends a lot of time on my ass. First it was his finger, lubed, pressing into me. I squirmed away at first, terrified, but he petted my hair and spoke soft words and was so gentle that I let my body relax until it did feel good. Strange, but also somehow pleasurable.
Since then he's been working me up with toys and butt plugs, slowly stretching me. I know what he's preparing me for, and a dark part of me is excited.
There’s a strange comfort in this routine, much like the one I'd formed with Seven for those few days when he touched me in the dark at night.
I'm worried about Seven. Is he alive? Is he hurt? Is he being neglected? Is he being fed? I wish I knew what was happening to him. Does our captor feed him when he's not with me? I've been afraid to ask. He hasn't given any indication he doesn't still want to share me, so maybe that guarantees Seven's safety and continuing existence.
Today after our daily routine, he takes me to a small room with large screens along the wall, revealing different angles of the cell Seven is in.
“Sit,” he orders.
I sit in the rolling leather chair, and he binds my wrists to the arms using cable ties from a desk nearby.
“Stay. And watch that screen.” I couldn't disobey the first order, unless I got out of the room and rolled down the hallway.
Before I can respond, he's gone. I turn my gaze back to the screen. Seven is chained in the cell. He can't have been chained the entire time because he looks clean, and the cell is clean. He's obviously used the bathroom and shower facilities. So that means our captor must be drugging him multiple times a day. This thought upsets me.
You can't just keep someone drugged like that without causing serious health consequences. Our captor never drugs me, but what happens when Seven starts to get sick from all the drugs building up in his system?
I'm relieved at least to see he's still alive. If he was beaten again, I can't find evidence of it. But his back is against the wall, so I can't know for sure. I tense as I watch the metal door slide open in the cell. Our captor pushes in a giant screen on wheels. From one of the screens in the control room I can see Seven clearly head on. From another I can see the screen that has been rolled into the cell.
