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“I’m not killing because of the victims, Tamara. Remember that. You’re supposed to help me pick the man who will provide the most entertaining experience for me.”
I struggle to keep the disgust from my expression and voice. “I’m sorry, Master. I am trying to be helpful. It is not possible for me to think the same way that you do, so I would not be able to select the appropriate person. I believe it would be best to kill them both. From what you tell me about them, they should both fight each other to the death, Master.”
He nods. “Never done that before. Might be entertaining. All right, Tamara, you will return to your room now.”
He means my cell.
After I’m chained to the floor, I slump on my mattress and try to think of ways to build a wall around my thoughts. To distract myself, I start doing the tapping routine, although I don’t bother with the words anymore. They’ve lost their meaning.
I lie down on the mattress with my back to the video camera, snatching the tiniest bit of privacy for myself. So, Tam, what do you do next? I can’t surrender to the level that he wants me to. I don’t think it’s even possible. He wants me to give up all hope of escape and live only to serve him, but of course I can’t do that. This isn’t George Orwell’s1984, where you can make someone think things that just aren’t true.
Or can you?
For hours after he made me say I loved him, I was in a strange daze of longing and gratitude. Yes, I was grateful to him for turning off the electricity. Thankful to him for rubbing ice on my tortured nipples, for the gentleness of his hands, for the way he looked at me when he eased my pain, as if I was magical and beautiful and treasured.
I know it’s insane. How could I be grateful to the man who tortured me, just because he stopped torturing me?
But there’s a part of me that just wants to give in. Fighting him is so exhausting. If I did everything he wanted, if I gave up all hope of escape, would he treat me differently? Would he be kind to me more often? Would he let me talk to him, and would he answer me?
The way he touches me when he’s being gentle, the way he drives all thoughts of my stepfather from my mind with his sensual bathing rituals… He didn’t have to do that for me. He could have forced himself on me. He didn’t have to let me have control over such a private area of my body. He doesn’t have to devote so much time to my pleasure when he’s bathing me.
No.This is all part of his plan to break me down. This bastard is trying to turn me into some kind of pathetic robot. He’s trying to make me into Elizabeth. Putting a collar on me and leading me like a dog, mocking me, forcing me to be silent all day long. I can’t even have a conversation with him. I can’t do this. I can’t, I won’t.
Come on. Think!I took an acting class once in high school. I cast my mind back to those techniques.Method acting. Live the part you’re playing.
When he asks me what I’ve been thinking, I need to be ready for it. If he surprises me with a question, I don’t think I’ll be able to fool him, but if I’m prepared, I might be able to carry it off. I start thinking about all the questions he could ask me, and rehearsing answers to them. When I finally drop off into an exhausted, dreamless sleep, I can’t say I feel good, but at least I’ve stoked that tiny, flickering flame of hope before it died out completely.
In the morning, after Elizabeth takes me upstairs, he bathes me again. And again, he asks me if he can kiss my pussy.
I politely say, “No, Master.” I’m more desperate than ever now to hold on to what little power I have left. And this is the only way I can think of playing my game, pretending I’m still resisting just the right amount.
Does that mean that sooner or later I’ll have to give in?
God, I hope not. My self-respect has already taken such a horrible beating, I can’t stand the thought of sinking much lower.
After the bath, he again makes me kneel and take him in my mouth. I’ve been practicing my breathing, holding my breath and timing myself. I’m getting a little better with each day. I hate to admit it to myself, but I love sucking him off. There’s so little chance for me to feel good about myself here that this little achievement every morning feels great. I love how much pleasure it gives him. I try to draw it out as long as I can, caressing his balls, grasping the root of his cock, moving my head fast and then stopping. The loud groans of pleasure when he comes, the tender way he caresses my head…it sickens me how much I’ve come to look forward to that each morning.
When I wake up each day with my heart pounding, I calm myself down by thinking about that short time in the bathroom when I can control the way he treats me. Do a good job sucking him off, and he will be kind to me.
But the second it’s over, the collar and ankle cuffs go on.
The next few days drag by miserably. It’s the same thing every single day. The two bright spots in my day are when he bathes me and when I exercise. That’s the only time when I’m out of my dark, lonely cell, and also allowed to be without the collar and ankle cuffs. I can walk around the house the rest of the time, but there’s no pleasure with the collar on. It’s driving me mad. I’m forced to stare straight ahead all day long. I want to read to alleviate my boredom, but it’s too physically uncomfortable.
I dread our meals, the sloppy way I’m forced to eat, the scorn in his voice as he orders me to clean up my disgusting messes.
Three or four days later—who even knows anymore—he looks up after we finish lunch and says, “Look at me, Tamara. How many times today did you think that I wasn’t your master?”
I stare at him. It’s the moment of truth. Or lies, which I plan on telling him.
“Two, Master,” I tell him. The truth is five.
And it works.
He nods.
I’ve even practiced my response to my confession. I manufacture a flash of fear and sorrow, rather than the true triumph I feel. It’s a tiny victory, but I’ll take anything I can get at this point.
“Then that’s how many times I’m going to whip each of your tits,” he says. He fetches the leash to lead me to the playroom.
