Chapter Ten

Diana

HELL IS EMPTY, and all the devils are here. Shakespeare said that, and I think he might be right.

When I wake up the morning after being pissed on and nearly drowned, Thomas has a tray of breakfast at my bedside, but his eyes are on me, gaze hard.

"Come here, little sinner," he beckons.

Reluctantly, I stand, seeing something in his hand but I can't really tell what. A small airplane bottle of liquor, maybe?

"Open your mouth and stick out your tongue," he commands.

Before I can stop myself, I comment, "If your plan is to gag me and make me vomit, don't waste your time. You may be delighted to know I have no gag reflex." Turns out I lost it after the gangrape. Funny.

He cocks his head, blond ponytail moving to sit on his shoulder as he does. "Why would I wish to make you sick to your stomach?" He must decide my answer doesn't matter, because he continues, "I have no interest in your lack of gag reflex … yet. Now do as I say and I won't be forced to punish you more than I am about to."

For what? What did I even do while I was asleep?

But I stand and do as he asks. He pinches my tongue between his thumb and forefinger.

"If you attempt to bite me, I guarantee what happened yesterday will feel like a day at the spa. Are we understood?"

I nod as well as I can.

"One of the rules here is extremely basic and simple: you will not curse. None of us do, myself included. Granted, you did not know that, so I will be lenient. Only four drops will be applied to your tongue."

Four drops…

Fuck my life, that little bottle in his hand is hot sauce. I don't even know what kind; there's a burning skull on the black label. I don't know how I handle spicy foods. During my time on my own, I tried a lot of foods I could afford, but never anything hot.

Thomas' green eyes hold my gaze as he pours four generous drops on my tongue, holding it out so the sauce sinks into the nerve endings.

At first, I feel nothing, and then the burning begins, activating every nerve in my mouth and making my eyes water. The longer it sits on my tongue, the more intense it gets, until it begins to numb, even as it stings.

Finally, after what feels like ages, he lets my tongue go and I make the mistake of swallowing the remainder of the hot sauce, setting my throat ablaze as I cough. Even my nose is stuffy now, and I wonder how someone managed to bottle lava.

"Be good, Diana, and that never needs to happen again."

Spoiler alert: it happens again. Not often. I do my best to answer anything Thomas asks with minimal words, but once in a while, a curse slips, and there comes the hot sauce. And unlike other acquired tastes like coffee or strong cheese, I don't get any more used to it than I was the first time.

Thomas keeps me on a rigid schedule, and I am able to keep track of days, then weeks, in my mind without forgetting. I always know when it is Sunday, because he wakes me up earlier so he can get to church.

I receive regular meals, can bathe daily, and receive daily beatings as well. Twice more Thomas has used me as a personal urinal. Every time when he has finished hurting me, there's a disconnect between his body and brain. His eyes look dull and bored, like this is business as usual. But his cock is always at attention, rock hard, as if he gets off on tormenting me.

He hasn't made me bleed yet, and left no scars. Nor has he asked about the few burn marks on my arm. He hasn't seen the hysterectomy scar yet, but an undamaged woman would have a period by now. If he doesn't ask about it now, he will soon. I have a feeling he's an intelligent, well-read man, albeit a nutty one. He isn't going to forget about that.

I hope he will accept the base truth of, "I can't have periods." If he makes me speak of my past, that is what will break me. That will be my undoing.

I built these walls inside my mind, and the voice of my conscience protects them. If they were to fall, if I had to face my past, I would collapse along with said walls. He has asked me a few times about my years on the street, and I give basic answers for that as well. No hints I was anywhere else before. Nothing about my life.

If he knows my name, he likely knows I am an orphan, which could be another reason he took me. No one would come looking. Mike isn't on any official paperwork, just what he forged to be my "guardian" to pull me out of school and ensure CPFS didn't come after him.

For all intents and purposes, let Thomas believe I was on my own since my mom died.

But he doesn't. He asks me too often; he knows I'm lying. And that's when the beatings get worse. Last night, his silence was more frightening than him threatening me. I had been equally silent when he asked me about the last few years, and when he stopped trying, there was this calculating look in his eyes that freaked me out. Like he was planning something.

Now, today, I haven't seen him. A young guy not much older than me has brought my meals, never once looking at or speaking to me.

Funny, I'm eating more. Thomas informed me he added some sort of protein powder to my breakfast every day. I don't know why my weight was such a concern for him, though. And no way in Hell am I going to ask.

I'm just biding my time until I can get out of here.

He seems to want to let me out. He calls me his fiancée and says God sent me to him to "save". So if I play along and let him save me, I can go back to my life, right?

What life? my conscience whispers. You'll have lost your apartment and ruined the meager credit you built because of unpaid bills by the time you're out of this basement. You'll be beyond square one.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I can make it. I made it before with less than nothing, I can do it again.

Even if the thought of really giving in and succumbing to this life with Thomas sometimes sounds tempting.

In the darkness of night, after he has shut the lights and all that filters in is weak moonlight from the sealed window near the ceiling, my mind wanders. To how it would feel to give in, to let him save me. To have a home, food, not be forced to fuck anyone.

Would he stop hurting me if I agreed to his terms?

Would he be a good person?

Am I fucking nuts for thinking any of this?

That last question at least I can answer with a resounding "YES".

As I think, the door opens and Thomas walks in, carrying a metal rod of some sort and a set of cuffs that match the one on my ankle.

My eyes widen, but I do my best to remain still. My whole body wants to run, to cower away, because there's only one place I can imagine him putting that thing.

Stay firm, my mind whispers. Don't give him your sadness, your fear, your pain. He doesn't deserve it.

"Diana, lean forward and place your hands on top of the foot of the bed," Thomas commands.

I nod and move, but apparently too slowly for him, because he grabs my wrists in one large hand and holds them to the metal bar atop the footboard, quickly securing the cuffs as if he's had practice.

He positions me as if I am a doll, and my body reacts by allowing my mind to retreat within itself. I wondered many times when he'd rape me, shocked every day that went by when he didn't.

I knew he wasn't any different, I knew this was just a matter of when, not if.

Yet, a small part of my heart that wanted to believe he wouldn't do this breaks, and I curse it. How fucking stupid and childish to have thought a man, or anyone, would be decent to me?

The front of my nightgown tears between his hands, rending it in two. It falls down my shoulders and he pushes it away, letting the torn pieces sit around my waist. It looks like I'm planking with my bare tits swaying in the breeze.

He walks over to me, still stone-faced, and rubs my dangling breasts. First he sort of massages them, then he begins to pull on my nipples.

For a moment, I feel desire stir deep inside and tamp it down before it can grow into a wildfire. Am I insane? I haven't felt actual desire … ever? Maybe before Mike started molesting me, I felt some adolescent version of it, but since then? Nothing.

Now I get off, apparently, on being abused. Fucking aces.

He begins to pull too hard, and I whimper as pain shoots through me, right to my betraying cunt. I am so stupid. So damaged. So broken. This nutcase thinks he can save me? I'm so beyond God's grace.

"Men were always drawn to your oversized breasts, were they not?" he asks me.

"Yes, sir," I say, voice dull.

"And they're real?"

I nod. "Yes, sir."

"Are you proud of them, little sinner?"

"No," I reply. "I just used them to make money."

He releases one nipple and holds the other out, stretching my breast and holding it aloft. "These are meant for your loyal husband, to nurse his children and for him to touch and abuse as he pleases. No one else. These have caused you to corrupt innocent men, and in turn corrupt yourself. Apologize !"

As he shouts the last word, his free hand forms into a fist and punches my taut breast hard. It smacks out of his hand and slaps against me as I bite my lip to keep from shouting in pain.

I refuse to apologize. I never did a damn thing wrong. It was the world that did me wrong.

"You need this. Your tits deserve this. A reminder of how vile you've behaved." He hits them a few more times with his bare fists, the force making my chest and diaphragm ache.

What if he breaks my ribs?

But he stops and picks up the metal rod … or is that a cane?

He looks at it for a moment and my whole body tenses up. I'm not ready for this. If he rapes me with it, that will be what breaks me irreparably. He taps it against his open palm and says, "I should penetrate you with this. Feel the cold, unyielding steel as it rearranges your insides. That's what you deserve , however I feel as if that would just excite you more, heathen."

So … he's not?

"You should begin to pray. For forgiveness, for salvation, and in gratitude." That is all the warning he gives me before the metal cane whacks against the soft skin of my breasts. On top, across my nipples, underneath as he holds each one up in turn by the nipples.

The pain is so bad you could set me on fire and I'd feel it less. Beads of blood pool below the surface of my skin, and the sensitive area is already beginning to bruise. I can't look away, despite the repulsion roiling through me.

Eventually I fade back into my own subconscious, tuning out the pain and his deep grunts as much as I can. Strands of hair come loose from his ponytail, dangling in his face. His cheeks are flushed as well, but his eyes are as dead as ever.

Eventually, he stops, and the cane clatters to the floor.

He unhooks the cuffs and my body flops down on the mattress, and I immediately regret doing that, as it aggravates my brand new wounds.

Thomas roughly turns me over so I am on my back, bare tits bouncing. As soon as I see his hand on his belt, I look away, but I can see him from the periphery of my vision.

I learned the hard way men want to be seen, to not close my eyes when they use me, so I don't.

He takes his rock hard cock out, stroking it. It's thick and long, precum at the tip. I wonder where he's going to put it first, how bad he'll hurt me like everyone else.

But he doesn't move closer.

He keeps stroking, staring at my wounded breasts, until he starts speaking. I can't understand it, and search my brain for what language it could be before I realize it's not a language. He's praying, speaking in tongues.

Oh, he really is so psychotic.

His voice gets deeper, melodic, faster. Even as he gasps and covers my breasts in warm semen, he doesn't stop until he is completely spent. Breathing hard, his eyes look more human now. Pupils wide, sparkles in them. When he meets my eyes, I look away.

Thomas says nothing, merely tucks himself back into his jeans, zips, buckles his belt, and leaves.

Leaving me bruised, wounded, covered in sticky come.

When the door shuts behind him with a soft snick of the lock, I finally let myself cry.