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He winces but doesn't cry out as I apply an antibiotic cream to his back. I feel so guilty that I don't have any marks. I know it would upset Seven if my skin had been broken, but it feels wrong that he got all this pain and damage, and I got earth shattering pleasure.
The original shame I felt at this is completely overwhelmed by the shame I feel now at the very different experience I got in the dungeon. I unroll the gauze across the marks that are open, and tape it down with medical tape. Some of his whip lashes are just red, not bloody, so I leave those alone except for the cream.
Seven struggles to sit up. He lets out a pained hiss as he leans against the wall.
“Maybe you shouldn't do that,” I say.
He shakes his head. “No. It's cool to the touch. It's better now. I'm fine.” His hazel gaze cuts to mine, concerned. “What did he do to you?”
I look away. “Just leave it.”
The voice of our captor comes out over the speaker again. “I gave our girl her first vaginal orgasm. It's too bad you missed the show, the way she bucked against the vibrator... the way she begged me. It was beautiful.”
My face flames at this, and I can't look at Seven.
“You sick fuck!” Seven says.
For the smallest moment, I worry those words are directed at me, but when I look back at him, I see his face is turned up toward the camera.
“You were the one who wanted her to have a lighter punishment. You made a trade. Do you regret the choice now that you know what lighter punishment means?” our captor mocks.
Seven's voice comes out so cold it frightens me. “You will make a mistake. And when you do, I will kill you.”
The only response from our captor is laughter. “I really love this noble act you've got going.”
“It's not an act.”
“Of course it is. Everything is an act. Everything is a game,” our captor says. “Ready for lunch, pets? You've been so good I didn't even drug it this time.”
Bottles of water are dropped through the slot. Since Seven is hurt, I go over to the food slot and take the plates as they come through. Both plates are white this time. It's ham and cheese sandwiches, pickles, and potato chips. Is it really lunchtime?
I know it's at least day because of my time outside the cell, the windows we passed.
We eat experimentally as if we don't trust our captor's assurances about the state of the food, but there really are no drugs this time. So he must not be coming in. In fact, several days pass without him coming in or even speaking to us except to announce food so one of us can go get it as it's passed through the slot.
We’re fed three times a day, and the food matches the time of day. Typical breakfast, lunch, and dinner fare seem to be served at the appropriate times.
I find myself weirdly grateful to our captor for this way to mark time. Each night, Seven and I sleep curled up together on the mattress. We turn the bathroom light out to sleep and lie together in total darkness.
In this darkness and privacy, Seven touches me. We never had a conversation about it. He didn't ask. I didn't say no. And he hasn't asked for the favor to be returned. I feel somehow shy about touching him back. So I just lie there under the cover of darkness as he caresses me and kisses my throat.
He starts out innocent each time. Safe places. My hair and face. My arms and legs. But he always finds his way to my breasts and then between my thighs, which I spread open for him every night without fail. He strokes me until I come, trying to keep my desperate panting and moans quiet but always failing. Then he whispers in my ear “Sleep.”
And I do.
My dreams are intense and erotic. Usually it's Seven I dream about. But sometimes it's our captor. I try not to think about those dreams. Seven is okay. Our captor isn't. Even so, the dreams with cold light gray eyes are more intense because they are more wrong.
What I do for Seven each day isn't sexual. I take care of his back. I help him bathe without getting the bandages wet, and then I change them, applying more ointment to the whiplashes that still need them.
Each morning there are new clothes for Seven and the old clothes have been taken out. There seems to be a rotation of three pairs of jeans and T-shirts for him since he doesn't sleep naked. He never wears the T-shirt anymore. I think he only wears the jeans because he doesn't want me to feel threatened by his near-constant erection around me.
I've slept through this strange clothing exchange every night but one. One night I heard the door slide open. I held my breath. No light ever came on, which makes me wonder if our captor is using night vision goggles. He never touched me. I just heard a few soft sounds, and then he was gone.
6
It's the fifth day of this routine. We just had our breakfast. Seven is in the bathroom running a bath in the large jacuzzi tub. When he steps out into the cell, the bandages are gone. There will be scars, but he's healed and no longer in any pain. And thankfully, they didn't get infected.
“Come take a bath,” he says. I think I hear an unspoken with me in there.
