Twelve

TWELVE

Iknew now why I’d written reverse directions. I’d never believed I would get lost. I’d always known I was going back. I just wanted a final taste of the freedom on the other side, like a bride intent on one last hoorah before her wedding day.

I wrote and mailed a letter to my parents knowing they’d never understand, but wishing somehow they could.

I felt a sense of smugness knowing the feds would be picking apart Nebraska looking for me, if they even made the attempt. Hopefully, crazy-induced or not, my letter would be seen as an insistence that they just let me be. It had been wrong to go back and give them false hope.

In my defense, I hadn’t done it on purpose. I’d believed for small moments at a time that there was hope. But the only thing I longed for was to be back in his arms again, and I knew that would never change.

Maybe the doctor could cure me. I could be doped up on drugs and reconditioned in an office where I was told over and over again it wasn’t my fault. That was the thing of it though, while I’d been stupid in leaving my drink unattended, I’d never believed I deserved it. I knew being captured wasn’t my fault.

I hadn’t thought I was bad. It could have been because he didn’t have words at his disposal to break me down in that way. Maybe if he’d had speech and told me over and over it was my fault, I would have believed it. But that hadn’t happened. I just craved that silent strength and power. I couldn’t stop myself.

I didn’t care how I’d gotten to this desire, only that I was here. He was the one thing in my life that made any kind of sense, and I didn’t know his name. I knew even if he took me back, I would probably never know his name. Only Master.

I pulled up to the house and turned off the ignition. I was wearing clothes he’d given me, the journal and CD’s clutched tightly in my hands. I knocked on the door and waited.

Was he even home? I’d persisted in the odd belief that he sat around all the time watching me on the video monitors, as if in doing so he was equally enslaved to me.

It was a beautiful day, one of those rare unseasonably warm days the south sometimes gets in December.

The sun was shining, the birds chirping, a light warm breeze blowing, and yet it felt stifling. Too open. Unsafe. Finally, the door opened.

Somehow I’d imagined he’d fall apart without me. He’d regret releasing me and be glad to have me back. But there was nothing disheveled or unkempt about his appearance. No hair out of place, and he was well-dressed. As always.

He regarded me with that arrogant coldness that somehow hadn’t seemed so cold when I’d been on the other side of that door. And suddenly I wasn’t so sure I had a place here anymore.

“Master, please . . . ”

He shut the door and locked it. I banged on the door for at least twenty minutes but nothing came of it. I slid to the ground on the massive porch and leaned against the heavy dark-stained wood. Had he really gotten bored with me?

He was just done? It was over because he said it was? I knew I should have gotten back in the car and gone home. I could intercept the letter when it arrived at my parents’ house and burn it. No one ever had to know any of this. I could go back to my therapy appointments and resume their plans for me. To get better. To recover. To survive.

I was angry he would turn me away like this. I should turn him in if he wouldn’t take me back, but I still couldn’t do it.

My knuckles were bleeding. The last time they’d bled, I’d been begging to be set free. I let out a hysterical peal of laughter. A few minutes passed, and the door opened a few inches. Before I could get up, it was shut and locked again. I looked down. A water bottle, soft washcloth, ointment, and bandages for my hands.

Now I knew the game. I could see no reason he would help me if he really had lost interest. He’d never been that cruel. As with everything, the choice was up to me.

However sick, twisted, or perverse it was, this was the most free choice I’d ever been given. I’d been completely safe, not in any way dependent upon him, and yet, here I was a month later, begging on his doorstep like some stray to be taken in.

A month out in the world and all I had to show for it was a lot of mindless television and a few visits to the shrink’s office. I carefully poured half the bottle of water onto the cloth. I gritted my teeth as I cleaned the torn skin on my knuckles. Then came the soothing aloe gel and the bandages. I drank the rest of the water and waited.

I reread my journal, the original. The other one, the sanitized copy, was still in the car. Here it was, every single thing he’d done to me and every single thing I’d submitted to so he wouldn’t put me back in the bad cell. Emotions, feelings, degrading sexual acts.

I knew how I was supposed to react, but I couldn’t call forth those feelings. Reading each scene described in vivid detail like erotica, I could feel the wetness pooling between my legs.

A couple of hours passed. I thought about knocking again, but my hands hurt too much. Besides, I had no doubt he knew I was out here still. If I kept banging, he might keep me locked out longer.

I carried on with the persistent belief that he’d open the door and let me back in, that this was the final test. I just had to prove my worthiness.

Finally the door opened, and he slipped a bowl of chicken noodle soup, crackers, and another bottled water outside before closing the door and locking me out again. I couldn’t stop the smile that spread over my face. God, I’d completely lost my mind. I crumbled the crackers into the soup and ate. Everything was turning around on me. The soup was comforting again because it meant hope. He was engaging with me.

That night clouds rolled in, and it started to rain. Thunder rumbled, and lightning flashed across the sky. The winds picked up and started to blow rainwater onto the porch.

The night and the rain brought a dip in temperature; it wasn’t quite cold, but it wasn’t comfortable anymore. I shivered and huddled into the corner of the porch, farthest from the path of the blowing rain.

I stared longingly at the Mercedes sitting a few feet away, unlocked. I could get inside and turn on the heater and lie curled on the back seat until the gas tank ran dry. But I didn’t want to be farther away from him, in case he let me in.

Around midnight the door opened again, and pillows and heavy blankets were tossed out.

I moved back to the corner of the porch and huddled in the blankets until I fell asleep. When morning came, there was a new chill on the air, weather much more befitting of December. I snuggled deeper into the wool fabric, wondering if he’d let me freeze to death on his porch.

Soon, strong arms scooped me up and carried me into the house. He sat me down on the couch in the room we’d been in that last day, and left. He returned several minutes later with fresh clothes from the closet of the good cell.

I held them uncertainly.

He crossed his arms over his chest and raised a brow at me. I hesitated for just a moment. Being free for weeks had caused bits of my modesty to come back, but my desire to stay with him, whatever the cost, overcame that false wall I’d re-erected around myself.

I peeled the old, still slightly damp, clothing from my body. I was aware of the consuming way he stared at me, as if assessing whether I was worth keeping, as if I were a slave up at auction. If he let me stay, it might be a long-term investment.

I was oddly proud of myself for maintaining the shaving and how it displayed my obedience to him even from a distance. I put the other clothes on and then sat on the couch, looking up at him expectantly.

Finally, he signed. Why are you here? I told you to go. I released you.

“I don’t want to be released. I want to stay.”

It’s wrong to keep you here.

“It’s more wrong to set me free! Don’t you see what you’ve done to me?”

He shook his head and crossed the room to take my arm. His grip was punishing, much more rough than he normally handled me, unless we were in the dungeon and he was whipping me for his sexual gratification.

He led me to the door, and I knew he was throwing me out for good. If he managed to get me outside, that was it. I knew he’d let me die on the porch from exposure or starvation before he’d ever open the door to me again.

I tried to pull away from him, tears streaming down my cheeks. “Master, please don’t do this.”

He dragged me down the hallway, ignoring my pleas. Finally, I got angry. Rage like I’d felt at the cemetery as I’d dug down through six feet of earth as if I could bring back something that was long gone.

“NO!” I jerked free of him. It wasn’t that I was stronger or had suddenly developed superpowers. It was that the vehemence and determination had surprised him enough to cause him to loosen his grip.

I backed further into the house, grabbing a candlestick that was sitting on a table in the entryway. An antique candlestick that probably cost more than I’d made in a month back when I’d been Emily Vargas, self-help guru.

He smiled at me, his eyes alight with genuine amusement. We both knew I couldn’t overpower him, even with a weapon. He could easily disarm me and throw me outside. Still, he stood back, his arms crossed again over his chest, waiting to see what I’d do. I’d just become interesting to him again.

Good for me.

“Just fucking listen to me!” My voice was stronger than it had ever been with him. I had nothing left to lose.

I wasn’t afraid of him anymore. I was only afraid of being without him.

I kept the candlestick raised. “Don’t you see how fucked up this is? You think it’s wrong to keep me? Well you should have thought about that shit before you took me! I’m your responsibility now. You created me. You made me this way. This is your fucking mess. If you suddenly care about morality, then don’t make me go. Let me stay. I’ll be your slave. I’ll be your whore. I’ll never fight you. I won’t disobey. Whatever you want, just don’t make me go back. Please. I can’t live in that world anymore. You know it’s true. I just want to be yours.”

Are you finished?

I nodded, deflated. He left me standing in the entryway, and when he returned he held the highest object of fear. A knife. He advanced, but I didn’t back away.

He gripped me by the throat and held me against the wall, the knife poised to strike. The cool blade was pressed underneath my chin. His eyes were hard and unrelenting.

“I don’t care. Do it. Kill me or keep me, but don’t you fucking dare throw me away again.” Then I added, “Please.”

I didn’t flinch or look away from his eyes. Finally, he flung the knife away and kissed me. His hands gripped my wrists tightly as he held them against the wall. His tongue delved deeper into my mouth, and I opened to him and submitted everything.

Then he stepped back from me and unzipped his pants before pushing me to my knees in front of him. I took his cock into my mouth without hesitation, sucking him until he came, and I swallowed.

Adrenaline buzzed through me like a living thing. I stayed on my knees at his feet looking up at him, waiting for his next order.

You’re going to be punished.

“For what?” For leaving him when he’d forced me to? For staying away so long? For coming back and making him face himself? The monster he was and the pitiable creature he’d turned me into.

For the disrespectful way you just spoke to me. If you stay, the rules aren’t changing.

I nodded, a hard lump forming in my throat. “Three weeks?” I asked. My voice was so small again.

It was almost as long as I’d been free. Three weeks was an unthinkable amount of time to spend in the bad cell.

You could leave.

I shook my head. It was only three weeks out of my entire life. I could make it.

“Do you still want me?”

If I didn’t, you wouldn’t have made it through the door.

I took his outstretched hand and followed him.

When we reached the cell, something passed between us. Perhaps it was the close bond we’d formed over the months coming back in full force, but it was like a telepathic link between us, and as I looked into his eyes, I could see the truth.

He’d never been sorry for taking me. He still wasn’t sorry. Not for one thing he’d done. It had been for his own sadistic pleasure that he’d made me make the choice.

Just as he’d forced me to choose to let him rape me or leave me in the cell forever. Just like he’d forced me to accept the riding crop, the whip, the cane, and everything else he’d ever introduced.

I’d just turned my back on any chance at freedom because he was never letting me go now. He smiled when he saw the realization on my face, and he turned to leave, the door sealing shut with deafening finality.

I had been free and I’d walked right back into my cage. I’d begged and fought to be let in, and the entire time I’d been playing his game exactly the way he wanted it played. I hadn’t convinced him to keep me. He’d always intended on me coming back to him. Just one more damning choice.

What the hell had I done? Was I truly this far gone? No textbook in existence could have prepared me for what I’d experienced.

I sat in the empty cell trying to think if the truth of it made a difference. Would I have come back if I’d been sure this was what he was doing?

The answer remained the same. Yes. No matter how desperately I wanted to, I couldn’t bring myself to hate him.

But it wasn’t love either. What we shared was deeper than love. It was a mad and unyielding obsession, and it was mutual. And the flames from it would likely kill one of us some day. Probably me. I couldn’t bring myself to care. I’d rather have this intensity with him than a hundred years of mediocrity with another.

I moved to my corner and waited. Minutes later the door opened as I knew it would, as if I’d called out to him with my mind to tell him I was sitting where I was supposed to be. But I knew the truth. His eyes had probably been glued to the video monitors from the moment he’d locked me back in here. He brought in my bathing supplies and fresh clothes.

“I’m on my period.”

I thought he might give me something, instead of making me go around naked, but he smiled and took the vile plain clothing away.

There was a time I would have questioned his smile, but our minds had worked to move in sync, thinking each other’s thoughts before the other had them. It was fitting that I should be reduced to this animalistic state once again. I’d been away too long in freedom, the ability to come and go as I pleased, to have privacy, to have modesty.

Now it was being stripped away from me all at once. But I don’t think he fully understood. He may have believed he knew, but he couldn’t possibly know what he’d unleashed within me. I was only free with him. He was the first person who’d seen me in every state imaginable and still wanted me. I’d never been so bare with anyone else.

I bathed and left my clothing by the door and went to sleep in my corner. It was still daylight I knew, early in the day in fact, but I needed a nap.

As I drifted off, I tried not to think about how time would all bleed together, the unsettling lack of knowledge about what day it was or what time it was, not knowing if the sun was in the sky or if it was the dead of night.

I dreamed of the good cell and the scented candles, the studio and old ballet records, the incense and rows upon rows of books. I dreamed of his face, his hands on my skin, his cock buried deep inside me while my unresisting body accepted each inch of him.

When my period was over, he brought me fresh clothes again. I didn’t try to fight or tempt him. I put them on and waited out my time. I didn’t want to make it four weeks.

Slowly the days were marked off. The chicken noodle soup came three times a day until I couldn’t stand the sight of it, until once again it was the vile punishment it had been intended as.

Finally, the three weeks were up, and he stepped into my cell. My heart thrummed with anticipation. I had sworn to myself I’d never give him any reason to lock me in the cell for three weeks, and I had broken that vow. Now I swore I would never be in the cell for four. I would never disobey or disrespect him again.

Even as I thought it, I knew it wasn’t true. I wondered how long it would be before I did something to send me back. I wondered if one day I’d be in the cell so long I’d lose my mind or forget what his face looked like. And I found that the second would be the worse punishment. I could handle being crazy if I could still look at him.

He held the blindfold out, and I stepped forward, allowing him to cover my eyes with the soft black fabric. I wondered if he’d ever let me roam the house freely, if it was something I could eventually earn. I would work up the nerve to ask him that someday, but not today.

Today, I allowed him to lead me out of the cell. My heart rate quickened as I heard the key code being punched in, first at the bad cell, and then at the door he’d brought me to. When he removed the blindfold, I knew this was where I’d find myself today.

The dungeon.

He approached me, but then backed away. Normally he’d done what he wanted, no communication but touch passing between us. He held my gaze, and then he signed.

Strip, slowly.

I’d been his willing toy for so many months, allowing him to play with me however he saw fit. I hadn’t seen myself as an active participant, not until now, when language finally broached our world together.

My fingers shook as I reached for the buttons of my top and undid them, slowly swaying to music I heard only in my head. Music he’d given me that I’d never heard until him. I stood naked, watching, waiting for his next command.

Do you want to be whipped?

The throbbing between my legs intensified as if he’d pushed a button. “Yes, Master.”

I looked down, suddenly shy and unsure. The fucked-up thing was that I did want him to whip me. I wanted him to do with me whatever would please him.

In two quick strides, he was in front of me. He gripped my chin painfully and forced me to meet his eyes. They were so stormy I couldn’t read the emotion in them. I felt for once the communication that had always flowed between us in silence had been shut down, broken through a more lazy form of speech.

You know I can’t talk to you if you don’t look at me.

“I’m sorry. It’s just so . . . strange. I . . . I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

He must have seen the fear in my eyes, that I was going back to be punished again for such a small offense.

I’m not putting you back in the cell, as long as you try to obey. You know that. I know you didn’t do it on purpose. It is strange.

I smiled and he smiled back. It was the smile that didn’t scare me, the one that made me feel inexplicably safe despite everything. He led me to the velvet bed and positioned me on my knees, locking the chains around my ankles. My stomach tightened as he scanned the row of whips and floggers before settling on one.

He was behind me now and everything felt normal again without words in the way. The whip cracked across my back, the pain searing deeper than I remembered, but it felt like something, and it was immeasurably better than the nothingness I’d felt when I was free and when I’d been in the bad cell.

He stopped when he drew blood, then his cock was inside me, pounding into me so hard I could barely catch my breath. I felt my muscles contract around him, and then wave after wave of mindless pleasure crested over me as I let the tears flow freely down my face.

His hands skimmed across my flesh, cupping my breasts, stroking my back where the blood was slowly pooling. His touch was like heroin in my veins, and I was a grateful addict.