Six

SIX

He didn’t take me to the good cell. Instead, he led me to another room, one I’d never been to. When he removed the blindfold, my mouth fell open.

Too many things to look at. There were chains on the wall and a metal table with cuffs on it. There were whips and canes and other various implements of pain that I didn’t exactly know the names of. There was a giant, round bed with a red velvet comforter pressed against one wall, beside which another set of chains dangled. There was a black leather couch in the center of the room and a box overflowing with more sex toys than I’d ever seen outside a retail environment.

I realized what I’d done too late. I’d accepted. I’d called him Master and accepted he was in charge of me, not me. Before that moment had I still had freedom? I wasn’t sure.

He would have left me in the cell probably forever. But which was worse? The cell? Or the new tortures waiting for me in this chamber?

It was a testament to how much of me he’d taken that I thought the bare cell was worse. He wouldn’t leave me alone in this room. He would be there with me. It should have sickened me. It should have made me scream in terror, but all I could feel was relief.

I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see the nice room again, but this was better than the past two weeks of nothing. I turned to see him gauging my reaction. The door to this new chamber, equipped with the same technology as the others, stood open.

He always gave me choices. Or maybe what he gave me was force wrapped in the pretty package of pretend free will. I’d spent a lot of time analyzing him, and though I knew he was obviously in some sense crazy, there was always a logical basis for his decisions. He believed he was giving me options, in his own twisted way, and therefore he wasn’t the bad guy.

Either he didn’t recognize blackmail wasn’t a choice or he didn’t care. He hadn’t used physical violence. Until now. Whips seemed pretty violent to me. But I knew him now, more intimately than he thought.

He believed he could hide his soul from me by never speaking, but his actions told me everything I needed to know. He wanted me to beg for the whip. And I would do it. I’d do anything he wanted. The door stood open, and he stepped aside, and we danced our little dance.

Would I run? Or would I stay and obey him? The choice was obvious. There was nowhere to run to. He’d already shown me this was true. He would never force me to do anything in that dungeon room. He would just put me back in the bad cell and ignore me like a crated, misbehaving puppy.

His eyes held challenge, and I stupidly still had enough defiance inside me that I wouldn’t run from him because I couldn’t face the shame and humiliation of going to that other cell again. The last incarceration had been two weeks, no time off for good behavior, no response to any of my demands or clever tricks. Next time would it be three?

Or would he tire of this constant disobedience and shut me away forever?

I didn’t move toward the door. I held his gaze and said, “I’ll do whatever you want.”

I could see evidence of his arousal outlined through the pants he’d put back on. He was wearing only jeans, the muscles of his chest so beautiful I could hardly stand to look at him.

Still, he didn’t move. I walked to the door and shut it, and then panicked because I’d just locked myself into a sadistic torture chamber with my captor. My captor who I trusted not to hurt me because he never had before, not physically anyway.

I’d made my choice. I turned and moved back toward him, still naked. He hadn’t put the clothes back on me, and I was glad. I’d rather be naked than wear the clothing I’d come to associate with punishment.

I watched him, waiting for his next move. He studied me for a few minutes as if his brain were cataloging all my actions and reactions on a hard drive somewhere.

He held his hand out to me, and I stepped forward and took it, trying to stop shaking. He smiled that soulless smile that made me feel warm and like I was dying all at the same time. A flush crept over my body from the predatory gleam in his eyes.

.. . He led her to the bed and arranged her on her knees facing away from him. The soft velvet was a warm caress against her skin. She heard his footsteps recede over the concrete floor, and she squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see what he’d gone to get. She was unsure which would be worse, an instrument of pain, or pleasure.

When he returned, his hand was gentle on her chin, raising her face toward him, and she opened her eyes. She could see something soft and almost human in his gaze, and she wanted to latch onto it. He turned her face so she could see the riding crop dangling loosely from his hand.

Her eyes flew back to his as the same cold fear she’d had in the other cell came rushing back. His eyes held question. He’d only hit her if she agreed. The mockery of her free will made her angry, but her anger was dwarfed almost completely by the feel of his hand on her face.

He’d been gentle in the other cell. He’d taken something profoundly scary and been kind and reassuring. She was still reeling from the careful way he’d held and rocked her afterward and then watched her with something like concern as he’d put his pants back on.

Her eyes drifted to the riding crop again, and she nodded. Then he was behind her. She tensed as she heard the crop slice through the stillness of the room. It was deafening. And then the sharp, loud pain. She gasped, tears in her eyes.

“Please . . . ”

He stopped.

“No, don’t stop.” She wished she could take the words back, but any further begging died in her throat as she relaxed and let the crop fall on her.

How had she allowed him to turn her into something so ugly? Someone who craved any sensation at all, even if it was pain. A few moments passed, and she let the rhythm of the strikes wash over her. When she’d reached the threshold of complete surrender, the pain morphed into something tolerable and almost . . . pleasant?

Her body betrayed her, taking this new sensation and responding with arousal.

He stopped then, and she had a moment to catch her breath before he returned with a single-tailed whip. She’d thought it was ending, but he’d only been warming her up for more. She’d read enough to know this wouldn’t be pleasant.

The whip cracked a few feet from her, and she jumped, finding her knees no longer wanting to support her weight. He allowed her to lie on her stomach and ran his hand over her back and the roundness of her ass. Then the strip of leather whipped across her skin, leaving a sting so sharp it brought tears to her eyes.

As he whipped her, she cried out but didn’t beg him again. She let it happen, whatever he wanted, as long as he didn’t take her back to the bad cell.

He continued, and she found herself floating while the endorphins flooded her system, and he pushed her higher still. Tears streamed uncontrollably down her face, but it wasn’t the pain that made her cry.

It was release, absolution. The surrender, finally, of everything to him. The acceptance that she was now his creature, not her own, and the inexplicable peace that brought her.

Finally, it stopped and she could feel a warm wetness on her back. He’d made her bleed. She felt his tongue trailing over the opened flesh. He stepped away from her, and she worried he wasn’t finished yet. Maybe he would take her beyond her ability to tolerate the pain to make her prove her new loyalty to him.

When he returned, he had a small basin of water, cloths, bandages, and ointment. He patched up her wounds, then turned her in his arms and kissed her softly on the mouth.

He retrieved the blindfold again and she scooted back.

Her voice cracked, “Are you taking me back to the cell?” If he took her back there and left her to rot after this . . .

He shook his head. She crawled back to him so he could tie the piece of fabric over her eyes . . .

When the blindfold came off,I was in the nice room again.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

I couldn’t stop saying it. It was a mindless litany now. I turned in his arms and my mouth found the hollow of his throat, and I kissed him.

He left me then. When he returned, I was stretched out on the bed, the pillows propped underneath me, watching for the door to open again. He rolled in a cart laden with barbeque chicken, corn on the cob, fresh green beans, cole slaw, rolls, a salad, iced tea.

He sat across from me and fed me. It was the first time in a long time. I let him, leaning into his touch each time he stopped to stroke my breast. I no longer saw this as what I had to give him in order to eat. Now it was reward.

Anything that wasn’t the bad cell was a reward. In less than six weeks he’d turned me into this. I hated the part of me that was so weak I couldn’t hold out longer, that I’d sell my soul for him to touch me and not leave me alone.

Wouldn’t any sane woman be grateful to just be left alone? What was wrong with me that being kept in that cell without his presence was the worst thing he could do to me? Far worse than being his fuck toy.

I’d convinced myself it would have been different if he’d been as ugly on the outside as he was on the inside, but he wasn’t. He was cruel beauty, a sculpture, a god, and I couldn’t tear my eyes from him. I’d seen his expression soften in the dungeon with the whip. I’d do anything to have him look at me like that again, no matter how insane he was.

It didn’t matter anymore because we were both insane. How can the crazy judge the crazy? He was a sadist, and he’d trained me into the perfect masochist. Or maybe it had already been there, waiting for the right circumstances to present themselves.

I’d been thinking more about my first boyfriend and how I’d reacted to being forced to orgasm, how different I was from those around me.

He’d finished feeding me.

“Did you pick me because you knew I would respond this way?”

He just smiled.

“You’ve got money and looks, and you’re obviously smart,” I said. I left off the crazy part because I’d just promised myself I’d do whatever I had to do to stay in the good cell. I wasn’t even sure this wouldn’t buy me more isolated punishment. Still, I pressed on. “You could have anyone you wanted. You could have seduced me, and I would have willingly played your games.”

He arched a brow at me, and immediately I realized how stupid that sounded. He had seduced me, after a fashion. He didn’t want the illusion of control; he wanted actual control. That was something very different. No matter how women might fawn over him, what he wanted, what he needed, was something he could only get in this way.

He pushed me down onto my back, and I stayed there. The thin gashes from the whip burned from the pressure, but I didn’t move. He wasn’t finished with me yet; he’d just taken a break to feed me. Now he wanted a fresh and unmarked canvas to play on.

He took the cart out of the room. I knew he was coming back for me, and whatever he was bringing with him, I would submit to it because I couldn’t go back to that hollowed-out cell. I needed to be surrounded by things, distractions, amusements.

I needed to lose myself dancing in the studio, or reading, or taking hot bubble baths. I wanted to soak up every physical sensation I could, in case it was all ripped away. All of it was an extension of him, and therefore all of it was a way in which he touched me.

He returned moments later with a long red taper candle, matches, a vibrator, and two bowls. He filled one of the bowls with water, then returned, arranging everything carefully on the table.

.. . He placed one of the chairs at the foot of the bed and pulled her to the end so that her legs dangled over the edge. She held her breath as he lit the candle and tilted it inches above her stomach. A hiss of air escaped her lips as the hot wax landed a drop at a time. A sharp stinging burn, that ebbed as the circle of wax dried and hardened.

She jerked as if by the movement she could escape the pain, and the first few bits of wax dried in long slivers. He shook his head at her and peeled the strips of wax from her body, dropping them into the empty bowl. He rested his hand firmly on her stomach.

Her voice came out barely above a whisper, “You want me to be still?”

A nod.

He removed his hand and let another drop of wax fall from the candle. He held it close to her skin, and she felt the warmth from the flame before the burning wax hit her flesh. A tear rolled down her cheek, but she didn’t move. The wax dried in a little round dot. She let out a shaky breath, and he repeated the action.

Over and over. She closed her eyes, focusing on breathing, crying, but not screaming because it might cause her to move. The little burning points of wax were being left close to one another, as if a pattern were forming on her skin, but it was so gradual she couldn’t make it out. There was a puff of breath as the candle was extinguished, and she let out a shaky sigh.

She heard a buzzing and then he’d shoved the vibrator inside her. Her muscles clenched as it pulsed through her. She remained still, afraid of disobeying him until he took her hips and coaxed her to move and respond to the vibrations.

The pain was forgotten, but then he lit another match and was dripping the wax over her nipples, continuing to encourage her to move. He’d worked her into a frenzy, but she wasn’t so past rational thought she didn’t know what he wanted from her.

He wanted her to come while he hurt her. The idea both repulsed and excited her as her body pushed around and reinterpreted the pain from the wax. She screamed as she came, her eyes shooting open. He snuffed out the candle and laid it on the little table, then pushed the vibrator deeper inside, holding it in place, forcing her to come for him again.

He pointed to her stomach and she looked down. Where he’d wanted her to remain very still, she saw he’d spelled out a word with wax. Mine.

She nodded, “Yes Master, I’m yours.”

The verbal surrender was just one more piece of her that now belonged to him. He carefully flecked the pieces of wax off her body and dipped a washcloth into the bowl of water. The water was cool as he gently dragged it over her skin.

He wrung the cloth out over her belly and chased the trails of water with his tongue. She watched as he stood and retreated into the bathroom again. She lay there, her legs spread wide just as he’d positioned her, as the vibrator pushed her toward another orgasm.

He returned a few moments later and withdrew the toy.

“Please . . . no . . . I need . . . ” She was babbling. She’d been so close. She shut her mouth and looked away from him. He’d already made her come several times that day. What was wrong with her that she needed more? She didn’t care how she ached for it, she wouldn’t beg again.

Her body jerked at a new sensation and she looked down to see him back in the chair, a razor and the bowl of water in hand, shaving her. She was so sensitive. It was maddening to have the razor gently brushing her skin so close to her clit.

When her pussy was bare, he ran the cloth over her sensitive flesh. She arched up to meet him, a small whimper leaving her mouth. He wrung the cloth out again, letting the droplets of cool water trickle down her slit.

Then his wicked tongue was licking up the drops, dipping inside her, and lapping at her clit. He held her ass cheeks with his hands, pulling her up to him, as if she were a banquet he couldn’t get enough of.

She came for him again, moaning “Master,” because it was the only name she knew. He slid up her body and into her, pounding her into the mattress.

She screamed.

“Please,” She didn’t want to go back to the cell, but the way he fucked her, with her back still raw and hurt, was too much. “Please let me be on top.” She was too afraid to say no.

He stopped, concern on his face, as if he’d gotten caught up and forgotten her back. “Shhhh,” he whispered, and flipped them so she was on top.

“Thank you.” She rode him, and he gently stroked her back until he came inside her . . .

He went to the closet,then he tossed me a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt that said bite me in bright red letters on it. I found I was disappointed that he hadn’t. I dressed and sat on the edge of the bed, unsure of what I was supposed to say or do.

“Master?”

He looked up.

“When you whipped me back there . . . was that . . . punishment?”

He shook his head slowly, his eyes burning straight into me. I swallowed hard. I’d suspected as much. The cell was punishment; the whipping was because he enjoyed it. Got off on it.

“I’m sorry for what I did that day,” I said quietly. I didn’t have to elaborate.

How did one apologize for attempted murder? Or was it self-defense? I couldn’t be sure anymore. I only knew that I’d tried to kill him and instead of doing to me what I’d attempted to do to him, he’d spared my life.

The only physical violence I’d experienced at his hands, I’d allowed him to do. A bargain, an exchange to keep me out of the cell and win his good favor. I was starting to feel safe with him. He’d gone from being just my tormentor to being my tormentor and protector, though I needed protection from nothing but him.

He simply nodded in response to my apology.

“Are you still angry with me?”

He looked confused, and it occurred to me he hadn’t been angry. He’d probably expected I would lash out at some point. It was natural in my position to do so, a part of the dance of victim and victimizer, and I’d played my part predictably.

He’d probably looked forward to the moment he could show me the futility of my efforts to escape. To break me just a little more. No, there had been no reason for him to be angry. It was just one more success. The cell had been punishment for disobedience, plain and simple. Anything else I’d read into it was wrong.

He picked up a hairbrush off the vanity and I flinched, thinking for a moment he might beat me with it, not out of anger but out of some sadistic need he had that he was slowly beginning to let me see. But he sat behind me instead, his legs coming around on either side of mine, and he brushed my hair. Slow, gentle strokes. I closed my eyes and relaxed.

When he’d finished, he kissed me softly and left. He returned moments later, handed me a notebook, and was gone.