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Things that might make me kill her.
And I don’t want to have to kill her.
So I whisper in her ear. “Nobody is looking for you, Toy. You haven’t even been reported missing yet. I don’t think you ever will be, because nobody out there cares whether you live or die. Why are you even fighting? There’s nothing out there for you.” And the hopeless dry-heaving sobs that rack her body tell me that my arrow has struck its mark.
Then I sling her limp body like a sack of flour over my shoulder and carry her back to her cell. I rub medicated cream on her wounds, but I’m rough and impatient. I force her to take antibiotics and drink water, but I don’t give her any painkillers. She doesn’t deserve it. She tried to leave me.
I send Elizabeth down the next day to take her breakfast and dinner of plain gruel, along with more antibiotics. No more lunch. I don’t bring her upstairs to exercise. It’s fine. Let her get weak.
Toy is in so much pain that she can barely move for days. I hear her cry out in agony.
I leave her down there in the dark for days. A week. No bath, nothing but a deliberately bland meal served to her twice a day.
One day she starts refusing her food. I send Elizabeth down with a note. “If you refuse to eat, I will shove a feeding tube down your throat and put a hood on your head. You’ll be blindfolded and chained hand and foot twenty-four hours a day.”
So she eats.
And once her feet heal, she stands up and stumbles back and forth every day, walking the short length that the chain will allow.
She’s starting to crack for real now.
Not that shit she was faking earlier, where she was willing to endure some punishment in order to trick me into thinking I was slowly breaking her.
Yeah, she thought she’d fooled me.
This is the real thing.
I sit in my office, watching the last pieces of her fall away. She cries out to the camera, begging me. Her face is twisted with sorrow and desperation. “My name is Toy, Master! Please, Master, I’m sorry! I won’t try to escape again. Please, Master, my name is Toy. I’ll be good! I’ll do anything you want, Master. Toy will do anything you want.”
I believe her when she says she won’t try to escape again. That girl, the one with a will of her own, is dead now.
I sip my bitter black coffee and turn down the volume on the screen to dull the sound of her screams, and go back to work.
I’m feeling itchy and unsatisfied because I don’t get to see my little Toy in the flesh anymore. I miss tasting her delicious pussy. I miss teasing her until she sobs with need and frustration. I miss thrusting down her throat and seeing that look of panic in her eyes as she struggles to take me in—and then her surrender, the way her nostrils flare to suck in oxygen as she swallows my cum.
Depriving her of my presence is part of the punishment, but it’s also hard on me. I wish I could make her appreciate that. What I’m doing to her is for her own good, and I am willing to make the necessary sacrifices, but the dull ache inside me, the need for her, grows with each passing day.
I finally decide to take a day off to kidnap the child rapist. I might as well take him out before he gets custody of his children, not after. Does it really matter? Not to me. I could always tell Toy about it someday.
No! I draw myself up short. That would be weak and foolish of me. Since when do I need to trot my good deeds over to her, for her approval? She exists to please me, not the other way around.
Bagging Stewart Hamilton is pathetically easy. I shoot him with a tranquilizer and bring him back to my estate in the soundproofed trunk of my car.
I am pleased to see that I haven’t lost the urge to hunt. I watch him go through the various stages of outrage and threatening, then on to pleading and bribing and begging.
The running, that’s the fun part.
When I catch him and force him to face off against me, he tries to rise to the challenge. He really does. He feints and jabs, he puts up a halfway decent fight. He even gets one shot in, slamming his fist into my solar plexus, and I grunt in pain and happiness at the sensation rocketing through my body.
The knives, oh, they’re glorious. The peeling away of the skin, exposing the red meat underneath. The shrill, girlish screams, the bubbling agony of his final breaths.
I dispose of him quickly, shed my coveralls, and take them back to my house to burn them.
By the time I get there, though, the elation is starting to fade, and thoughts of Toy are crowding into my head again. That’s much too soon. I think it would help if she was upstairs with me, if I could play with her, spank her, make her beg for my cock. But if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s maintaining self-discipline. She’s not ready to come back upstairs yet, so I will suffer without her until it’s time.
A couple of days later, I’m in my office reading the paper online when I’m hit with a bombshell. The Morton Media Group has been purchased.
Shock ices my veins as I read the details. The purchaser, a real estate development group, offered them less money than I would have, but is allowing them to continue to operate their newspapers.
