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He twists the towel and snaps the wet material against my skin and I skitter to the other side of the bed to get away from its surprisingly painful bite. How can something so soft hurt me this much? He whips me over and over again until I’m soaking wet with the water from the towel.
I huddle into a ball. After a while I can’t hear what he’s saying and I barely feel the swat of the towel. Instead, I’m cocooned in a sort of meditative state—there are no more tears, no more pressure, no more screaming, no more anything. It’s peaceful.
Once he drops the towel down to the floor he turns me over and stares into my face. The tears have long since dried up and I can see his features much clearer than I’ve ever seen them. His eyes aren’t just dark brown like I’d thought. There are twinges of green inside of them. His beard is neatly trimmed and the wounds on his face seem like they were made from something blowing up rather than something just slicing against him. His lips are full and the top one has the cutest cupid's bow, making me want to nibble on it. He talks and his teeth seem a bit whiter than before while there are two on the bottom that are slightly crooked. The ones on top are celebrity straight. I wonder what his face is like when he shaves. His nose has a small dent right at the bridge as if it had been broken a few times, but it takes nothing away from the strength of it. His hair is longer today than when I had first met him a few days ago. It flops down over his eyebrows and beads of sweat litter his forehead. He’s beautiful.
“How sorry are you now, Whore?” He sneers out, but I can’t form the words to answer in anger.
“I deserved this Savage. You only did what you thought was right. I’m sorry I disappointed you.” I reply and reach up with my weak arm to caress his cheek. He jerks away and stares at me like I’m a goddess come to life.
“Yes, you did deserve this.” He shakes off what I did to him and walks out of the room. I don’t move, instead I let the sting of the pain returning to my body vibrate through my soul. He comes back in and in his hand I see a small vial and a needle.
Is that drugs? I don’t want that, but I know Savage would never steer me wrong. Right?
“Savage, please don’t drug me.” I plead ready to receive the punishment.
“They’re not drugs like you're thinking. It's a nerve block. It seems like you don’t understand the meaning of don’t fucking move. Let me try this again. Don’t move a muscle.” He grabs my legs and flips me over so I’m on my stomach. He starts to prod and poke in the soft area at the middle of both of my legs. I feel a pinch in the back of both of my knees and within a few minutes I can no longer feel my feet or basically anything below my knees.
He turns me back around and uses his switchblade to cut the pretty cotton nightgown off me leaving me naked in the middle of the blood stained bed.
“I’ll be better Savage. I promise.”
He glares at me for a second, “You said earlier that you need to be on stage? Why is that?”
I can answer this question honestly. Yes, I can do that. “I like it when people think I did good. Applause, praise. I like having people see me.”
“Maybe that’s the key to breaking you after all.” He says and walks back to the small desk in the corner and pulls out the chair there. He makes sure to kick away the glass before he sits down and just observes me.
The silence is suffocating. What does he want? Is he going to punish me? Is he happy? Why won’t he talk to me?
He pulls out his pocket watch, checks the time and simply goes back to observing me.
“Savage, talk to me. Why are you just sitting there? What do you want?” I ask and sit up even though I can’t move my legs.
Hours in silence, he stares and I realize this might just be my worst fear. There’s no applause, no smiling, no shock, just him and me. It feels like he’s peering into my soul and could see the ugliness.
Chapter Eight
Three days. I've laid here for three days in this fucking agony. The man hasn't said a word to me. He hasn't screamed at me, reprimanded me, or praised me. Nothing. I thought when I had peed on myself he'd have something to say. Instead the man had cleaned me up and went back to the desk to read as if I were nothing more than a leaky fucking pipe.
Every so often he'd come no matter if I'm sleeping or awake and he'd use my body, but he doesn't even give me the satisfaction of an orgasm; neither his nor mine. He pulls out before either of us can get too out of control. I'm assuming he goes to the bathroom to finish himself off, but it's not because of me. He doesn't even let me know that I please him with my pussy. I'm perpetually in a state of limbo. That's all this is and I fucking hate it. I'd tell him anything he wants to know, whatever he wants to hear if he would just talk to me.
He's been keeping my legs numb so I can get out of the bed, but he leaves my other body parts free so I can turn and not get too uncomfortable.
With the room windowless, I don't have the slightest clue what time of day it is. I think it's night, but my mind is running so fast that it could be the middle of the day and I wouldn't know.
The door to my room opens and Savage stands leaning against the door frame. He's not going to say anything to me. He never does. I hate him even more now than when he was beating me.
The first few days of having him take control of me had felt like a fucking vacation. The uncertainty and the submission was far more welcomed than this crippling loneliness and deafening silence. I've tried to ignore him, but that proved futile. I've tried to provoke him as well over the past few days, cursing and screaming up a storm just so he'd do something. Except all that had got me was him leaving me completely alone for the rest of the day.
He stares at me for a second before he walks over to the bed, his face a mask of indifference and boredom. He unbuckles his pants and turns my head using my hair as a handle. I hungrily lunge for his cock, I need some form of release even if it's just his. I quickly work on sucking him off using every trick I can muster. His cock is rock hard, but before even a drop of precum coats my tongue he yanks my head back hard and pulls out of my mouth.
“No! Please! Please! Come back Savage! Just tell me what you want. I can't take this. I'm trying to do what you ask, but I don't know how to please you if you don't tell me.” Huge tears fall from my eyes. It's like the worst public service announcement about communicating between couples. “Please, just let me serve you. Let me …”
Before I can get the rest of the words out of my mouth he turns on his heels and walks out the door again without so much as a grunt in my direction.
I slam my head back against the bed underneath me, the bloodied sheets are bunched up and crusty under my body. I hit myself over and over, but it's nothing like the firm hand I know Savage could give me.
I can't take this. I had thought I'd be able to ride this out, but I'm certain now that I can't. I literally feel like I'm going crazy. I scream loud over and over just to get some type of sound in the room, but Savage doesn't come back. He leaves me alone. I feel abandoned and useless. I don't feel like a good whore, or even the popular Genesys. I only feel worthless.
