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Pleasure flows through me and heat pools in my belly. My muscles loosen, and I glory in the warmth of the water and the sensation of his hands rubbing back and forth, back and forth.
My eyes half closed, I open my mouth to tell him that it feels good. I want to ingratiate myself with him, make him think that bit by bit he’s winning me over. He freezes me with a challenging look. He cocks his head to the side.
I drop my gaze, furious at the level of submission he demands from me.
After he bathes me, he opens up the bath drain, then bends down and kisses my stomach. He moves down, lower, lower…
“May I kiss your pussy?” he asks, startling me.
I suck in my breath. I desperately want him to. But he has enough power over me already. The pleasure that he can give me is sick, and it’s wrong. And I don’t want him to be the source of any pleasure at all. My hatred for him fuels me, gives me strength.
Maybe if he’d let me talk a little earlier, my decision would have been different. But I’m glad he’s being such an asshole; it makes it easier for me to resist the ultimate surrender. I’m thankful he’s too damn arrogant to force himself on me. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I beg for it the way he said I would.
“No, Master,” I say.And you’re not my fucking master,I add in my head. I’ve promised myself that every time I call him Master out loud, I’ll respond with what I’m really thinking—in my head, alone.
But he’s looking at me, as if he knows what I’m thinking. I quickly drop my gaze.
He doesn’t say a word about my refusing him. I climb out of the tub, then dress in the pants, bra, and shirt he hands me.
We eat breakfast in perfect silence. I’ve always been the chatty type. The effort that it’s taking me not to talk makes me want to scream. It’s not that I want to talk tohim, but he’s all I’ve got.
After breakfast, he puts the thick collar and the hobbling chains on me again. Is this going to happen every day for the rest of my life? The thought horrifies me. Weakness ripples over me, and I sway slightly, just barely catching myself.
I wait for him to leave, but he just stands there, staring at me silently. Then he strokes his finger over my lips. “What do you dream about at night, Tamara?”
I stare at him in confusion. “Nothing. I mean, I don’t think I do. I never remember any dreams, Master.”
He’s staring at me intently as I say that, as if searching for something. He considers my answer, then just nods. I wonder why he asked me that.
He drops his hand. “Here’s your schedule for today. Eleven a.m., exercise. Noon, lunch. Two p.m., you will meet me in the playroom, where I will punish you for trying to escape. Six p.m., dinner.”
My jaw drops in shock.
“You tried to open a window in the parlor,” he says mildly. “I told you what would happen.”
What the hell?“But that was yesterday, Master.”
I see the snap of anger in his eyes, and flinch.
“Did I give you permission to speak?” he asks.
I dare an answer that won’t make him happy. “You said that I could only speak when spoken to, Master.”And you’re not my fucking master.
This may cost me an extra beating, but it’s also part of my plan. Respectful, but showing that I still have my own mind, that I’m still willing to fight for myself. It’s too soon for me to pretend that I’ve completely given up. That’s probably weeks away.
He cups my chin in his hand. “Very nice, Tamara. New rule. You only speak if I ask you a question or explicitly give you permission. If I give you an order, you respond with ‘Yes, Master.’ Is that clear enough for you?”
I nod. “Yes, Master.”And you’re not my fucking master.
“Aren’t I, though?” he says. I stare at him, startled. What is it with these answers to things I haven’t said?
The morning and afternoon drag by in utter misery—exactly as he’s planned, I’m sure. He’s forcing me to anticipate what he’s going to do to me. At lunch, knowing what’s coming, I have no appetite at all, and the thick collar doesn’t help. My stomach curdles in fear of the inevitable pain he’ll inflict on me, but he sits there and glares at me until I eat half of a melted brie sandwich on thick crusty bread.
We go through the same exercise routine, this time with me stripping for him as fast as I can as soon as he hands me my workout clothes. He doesn’t talk to me, just points at the treadmill, and when it turns off, he points at the free weights.
Afterward, he puts my collar and ankle chains back on and leaves me without a word. I shuffle to the parlor and sit down on a couch, and I watch the clock on the wall as minute by minute ticks by.
Finally, it’s time to go. I’m cursing him every hobbling step of the way as I make my way to the playroom. Even here, even walking to what will surely be a session of torture, I’m compulsively on time.
