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“Please fuck me,” I beg. I want to use his name, but I know this will only get us into trouble so I refrain.
“What did I say three days ago?” the voice says. “You will call him Master. You will address us both as Master.”
I think somehow it breaks Seven more to be put in this position being shaped and molded into a monster against his will, baited with the promise of food and survival. And not just his own, mine too.
“Please, Master, fuck me.” I can barely get the words out.
The muscle in Seven's jaw tightens again, and his face is still turned away from mine. His hands clench and unclench at his sides. He doesn't make a move toward me. It's as though this decision is much harder for him than it was for me.
“Please, just do what he wants. I don't want to die.”
Despite Seven's choice to take me into the shower with him, the enormity of this seems almost too much for him.
The voice speaks again. “This isn't fair play. She's willing to play my games. If you aren't, maybe I should come into the cell and fuck her myself. Then she can eat, and you can learn a lesson. How would that be?”
“Don't you dare touch her!” Seven shouts.
There is laughter over the speaker. “I can do whatever I want with her. She’s mine. She belongs to me. And I’m generously offering to share her with you, to allow you to have a piece of her. But strictly speaking, we don't really need you. So if you want to starve and leave her all to me, I won't complain.”
Seven flinches when I reach out and touch his arm. “Please... just give him what he wants.”
“Please, Master,” the voice patiently corrects.
“Please, Master,” I say.
I swear every time I say that word to Seven I think he will completely lose it. There’s a pause. He takes a long, slow breath, then finally, he stands and without a word, peels his T-shirt off. The jeans go next. He isn't wearing underwear.
“Lie down on the mattress,” Seven says.
I crawl onto the mattress and lie down. It's even nicer and more comfortable than it seemed just looking at it, and I now regret not taking his offer to sleep here instead of on the hard floor.
My gaze drifts to his impressive erection. Whatever moral issues he may have with this situation, it doesn't affect what his body wants right now. He lies down beside me on the mattress and begins to gently stroke me.
I’m sure the voice will interrupt and stop him. I'm sure the voice wants Seven to be hard and rough and mean about it, but there’s no interruption. There’s no commentary. The touches start innocent and sweet. He brushes my hair away from my face, and runs his fingertips through it several times. He strokes my cheek, then drags his thumb gently over my lip as he unconsciously licks his own.
His hand trails down my neck. Hands graze down and then back up my arms. Gentle strokes down and back up my legs.
“What a pretty bare cunt. I like it,” the voice says over the speaker. I flinch at this.
I don't wax for the visual or tactile pleasure of men. I do it for myself. I like the way clothes feel when they brush against that bare intimate flesh. I like the way it feels when my fingers drift over and play with it.
I had a salon appointment a few days ago. I know I shouldn't have. I couldn't afford it. But the cost of rent was so much higher than the cost of waxing, and I just wanted something normal and routine to make me feel like everything in my world wasn't falling apart. That seems so long ago now. The specter of homelessness that had loomed over me now feels so trivial in light of everything.
Seven's eyes are filled with lust, and I know he agrees with our captor about the lack of hair between my legs.
“We'll have to keep her waxed,” the voice says. “When the time comes, do you want to wax her, or should I?”
We both know our captor is just trying to upset us. But it's working. Seven goes back to touching me, determined to block out our seedy voyeur. He rubs soothing gentle circles over my belly, and then those same movements happen again with each breast.
I let out an involuntary gasp as his mouth latches onto my nipple and sucks it into a hard point. The arousal that was lacking from my own body suddenly awakens at his mouth on my breast. Then he moves lower.
“Spread your legs,” he says, his voice going more guttural. The command is a command by every understanding of that word. It’s as though he’s crossed some imaginary bridge in his mind, and he’s now ready to play the role of my owner.
I spread my legs, wordlessly inviting him to touch me, to lick me, to fuck me. I'm starting to care less about the cameras because I'm beginning to need Seven inside me. Like Seven, my body doesn't care about the actual situation. It wants what it wants. It’s a primal dance with music we may not consciously know, but our bodies know, and they want to play this erotic symphony together.
The more he touches me, the less guilt he seems to feel about touching me, the more he treats me as a lover he has every right to possess.
I arch up against his mouth, my fingers desperately clawing at the mattress for purchase, anything to anchor me and hold me to this plane of existence. I moan as he sucks on my clit. His fingers dig into my hips as he greedily devours me.
