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I think I’ve gone mad. This is the end. I can’t take much more. This isn’t life. This is worse than death. The loneliness, the boredom. The only thing for me to figure out now is how to kill myself before he can get to me.
I would do anything just to get out of the cell and back up into the house, but he’ll never let me. For the crime of wanting to escape and live my own life, free of chains, he’s sentenced me to an eternal Hell.
I’m so angry at myself I want to rip my own face off. Why didn’t I appreciate what I had before? I think of all the things that Master did for me. He was so soft and gentle when he stroked me. He loved to please me. He let me have power over my own body; he never forced himself on me. He fed me delicious food and took me up to the gym so I’d be healthy. He bathed me in sweet, warm water, lathering me with delicious smelling bubbles. My world was full of color and pleasure when I was with him. He is a god. He can make my body feel anything he wants to. He can drain all color from my existence. I shouldn’t have made my lord angry. My lord and master.
I have to think like this, have to believe that Master might be good to me again someday. I keep begging him and begging him. I promise him that I am his Toy and I will live to serve him.
I tell myself again and again that I am Toy and he is Master. I have to believe it with every fiber of my being, if I am ever to have hope of seeing the light again.
More time passes. There’s nothing but the damp smell of mold and the faint light overhead, winking off every night to tell me that yet another day of my life has vanished, breaking my heart every time. When the panic swirls up inside me, I try to calm myself with deep-breathing exercises, but that just makes it worse. Every breath tastes and smells like mildew and wet dirt.
Sometimes the ghost of Sarah’s voice tries to talk to me, to give me strength, but I put my hands over my ears and scream until she stops. She can’t help me; she failed me. It’s her fault that I’m here. It’s my fault. I’m going mad and I can’t remember anything about what I once dreamed of.
Being chained to the floor is a nightmare. I can only take a few steps in any direction, so I can’t even pace inside my cell.
I realize I’m sitting on the bed, rocking back and forth and clawing at my own arms just to feel something. How long have I been doing that? Hours, days?
I have no bed covers with which to hang myself. However, I’ve slowly, secretly dug into the mattress and found a mattress coil I could use. I can slash my wrist with it. I’ll have to move fast and I’ll have to stab hard.
And then the door opens, and Master walks in.
And I think he knew.
He loves to drive me right to the edge of despair and then snatch me back. And the horrible thing is, I can’t fake it. I have to suffer to the point of madness to satisfy him.
I deserve to suffer. I only exist to please him, and I failed at that.
I sink down to my knees and bow my head as he walks over.
“You fucking reek,” he snarls at me. “You smell like you rolled in shit. You’re disgusting.”
“Yes, Master. Sorry, Master.” And I am. I’m sorry about anything that might upset him. Sorry about anything that might make him punish me more.
“Get up, right now.”
I scramble to my feet, hanging my head.
He leads me upstairs to the bathroom and orders me to brush my teeth. I obey instantly. Then he has me wash my crusty, dirty face.
He runs the hot water for me. I climb into the tub eagerly and sink into the bath with a whimper of relief. I am delighted when he cuffs my hands and ankles. I moan with pleasure as he runs the washcloth over my body.
This is real. This is happening. This is all I could ever dream of—me, here in the light and the sweet-smelling air, with Master kneeling between my legs, his strong hands massaging my breasts.
After he bathes me, he strokes the washcloth between my legs, and I moan even louder, desperate to let him know how grateful I am and how much I love what he’s doing to me. I’m not faking it, not in the slightest. The rub of the cloth between the swollen, needy folds of my pussy lips sends shudders of delight rocketing through me. After feeling so little for so long, every sensation is magnified a million times.
He slowly, carefully, shaves me until I’m completely smooth, and my breathing quickens with pleasure as his fingers spread me open for inspection. I am exposed to the air, my eager flesh waiting for him to stroke it back to life. But his hand withdraws.
“What is your name?”
I gaze up at him, so very grateful to him for letting me obey his orders. For letting me please him. “My name is Toy, Master.”
He makes me repeat it ten times, and I do, without hesitation. I’m frantic to keep him happy.
I can’t go back in the cellar.
“May I lick your pussy, Toy?”
“Yes, Master. Please, Master,” I beg. “I love it when you lick me. Please lick my pussy, Master.”
