Seven

SEVEN

Ididn’t pick it up at first. If the last book he’d left for me was any indication, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know its contents. Instead, I left it on the table and went into the ballet studio to stand in front of the mirror.

I lifted the T-shirt over my head and gingerly peeled back the medical tape. I couldn’t stand not knowing how bad the whip marks were. I didn’t know why it mattered. Even if it wasn’t deep, he could just be getting started. And I didn’t know whether he’d let me heal before he did it again. I waited until I’d gotten the bandages off before I dared to look at the damage. I pulled my hair up and peered over my shoulder at my reflection. It wasn’t that bad. The bandages on the ground didn’t have much blood on them, another good sign.

It looked like he’d stopped as soon as he’d broken the skin. He’d also been careful to only hit my upper back and shoulders, nowhere it would cause permanent damage.

I glanced up at where I knew the cameras were and wondered if I’d get in trouble for removing the bandages he’d spent so much time on. But if he was going to do it again, I thought it needed air, so the cuts would close more quickly. I tossed the bandages into a garbage can in the corner.

I looked back into the mirror, this time at my stomach, at the light red burns left by the candle wax. I traced my fingers over the letters of the word mine, the temporary brand that I never wanted to fade away. Then I slipped the top back over my head, wincing as it settled over my skin.

I’d accepted he was never letting me go. He’d invested too much time and money in all this. I couldn’t begin to guess how many months he’d stalked me to discover so much about my likes and dislikes. If he hadn’t taken me in the way he had, I would almost think he was a regular guy trying to impress me with gifts. But I knew that was ridiculous.

He was a predator and I was his prey. No matter how much I came to depend on him and crave him, I wouldn’t forget that. What he’d done and was continuing to do to me was wrong, but the constant struggle to fight it based on moral fortitude was too emotionally exhausting for me. Acceptance was easier.

If I wanted to keep any part of my mind intact, I had to obey. There were only so many trips to the bad cell I could handle before I lost it completely, before I became a shell instead of a person. The good cell told me everything I needed to know. He was offering a gift I was fortunate to be given. He was offering to let me keep enough sense of self to not fall into madness.

He didn’t have to give me the nice room and the studio and bathroom and all the luxuries these rooms held. He didn’t have to give me a window or the best southern food one could put in their mouth. He didn’t have to ever give me any kind of pleasure. I tried to hold onto the reality that it didn’t make any of it okay, but I was having a harder time seeing that because my reality had been narrowed to him and the things he could make me feel.

I hadn’t looked through all the CDs or books yet. In the short time I’d been in the rooms before attempting to kill him, I’d spent most of my time in the studio or taking bubble baths and trying on clothes. I thumbed through the CDs finding a wide range of things I liked: classical, rock, jazz, some international music.

I wasn’t a fan of international music and wondered if he was including his tastes as well. But I was curious, so I slipped a Middle Eastern CD into the player. The music was rich and earthy and alive in ways no other music I’d ever heard was. It pulsed through me, steady drumbeats, layers upon layers of rhythm and music.

The room contained no TV or DVD player, no computer. There were no movies, no news, no commercials, no Internet. Nothing to link me too closely to the outside world. No faces to see but his, not even on a screen. No voices but my own calling out in the silence.

I looked more closely at the books. I was familiar with the shelves at eye level. They held a lot of my favorites, but now I was looking more closely. On the lower left-hand row, closest to the dresser, almost as if it were hiding, was a complete section of erotica. Something like fifty titles. All of them were the same theme. Kinky. Most of them Master/slave fiction. A few of them familiar.

Story of O, for example, was a classic that I would just as soon not read again, given my current circumstances. I didn’t know how many things from these books we’d be acting out. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

It was one thing on paper, in a fictional world; it was quite another when it was real. Still, the books were there, calling to me, tempting me to read and be reawakened to their erotic secrets.

I was no longer the teenager giggling under the covers with a flashlight reading something naughty and bad. I was a grown woman living it, and some darker part of me was clawing to get out because what choice did I have left but to give in to the dark?

My eyes drifted back to the table and the plain black spiral notebook, like a college student might use. I knew it wasn’t empty. It wasn’t a blank book for me to write in. That I already had, and I’d been writing in it.

No, the notebook contained information. It was his first explicit communication to me, and I was terrified to find out what it contained. After weeks of existing in a state where I had to read nonverbal signals, I was afraid to get actual words from him.

I was scared to see how much of him I knew, and how much of him I didn’t. But I couldn’t ignore it anymore. Whatever was inside, I needed to read it, to prepare myself for what was coming next.

I picked up the notebook and took a bottle of water from the mini fridge before lying down on my stomach across the bed.

The book held no mention of why he’d taken me or for how long he intended to keep me. Though I knew the second answer: forever, or until he grew bored with me. I was afraid of what would happen once he did grow bored with me. Though I determined reasonably that could be a long way off, judging from his obsessive and meticulous behaviors so far. A man who plans for months before taking a slave doesn’t grow bored with her in the same length of time.

Instead of explanations, the book contained rules and punishments. Much of it I’d figured out already with regards to punishment, but to see it in black and white only confirmed my suspicions and left me no excuses to disobey and then claim ignorance.

As I’d already known, obedience would keep me in his good favor and in the rooms I presently occupied. I had suspected as much . . . and yet there was always the fear he might move me back to the bad cell on a whim. But he’d written on the crisp white-lined pages that he wouldn’t as long as I tried to submit, and I trusted him to keep his word.

If I’d learned anything over the weeks of my captivity, it was that obedience equaled reward, and disobedience equaled punishment. He never lashed out in anger. He was always in control, both of me and of himself. It made me put faith in him that ultimately, if I followed the rules, he wouldn’t harm or kill me.

Masturbation wasn’t allowed for any reason. Sexual pleasure would come from him and him alone. He mentioned the erotica. He wanted me to read it, at least one book a week, but I wasn’t allowed to touch myself. If I did, I would be punished.

Punishment was as I thought and as he’d confirmed earlier with only a look. I would be sent to the cell for any infractions. Each incarceration would be longer than the one before it. There was no sliding scale based on the level of disobedience.

I had expected the murder attempt would land me in the cell longer than if I’d just tried to escape. Or that trying to escape would offer me a longer punishment than if I’d refused to obey some small whim of his. But it was all the same.

Saying no offered the same level of punishment as trying to take his life. The next time would be three weeks and then four. Eventually I could end up withering away in that cell if I didn’t obey him.

In some sense he offered me freedom if I wanted it. All I had to do was refuse him and he wouldn’t touch me. I would have nothingness and food that no longer held flavor, but I would be free of his touch.

I knew I’d never take that offer because the freedom he offered me was the kind I’d always loathed. My mind was too full and in need of stimulation to be locked away in the cell forever.

The extremeness of the punishments ensured I wouldn’t rebel. I’d already decided I would do anything he wanted without question because I didn’t want the cell, and I never wanted to look at chicken noodle soup or crackers again.

I had no doubts he could follow through. If the wait became too long for him, he wouldn’t shorten my punishment. He’d kill me or take another slave before he broke his own rules.

He could already have other slaves and I’d have no way of knowing it. It would explain the ease with which he could resist me while I was being punished, despite his obviously strong sexual desire otherwise.

His entire fortress-like home could be a camp for slaves. The thought sent a white-hot bolt of jealousy through me.

I knew it was an inappropriate response. I shouldn’t feel jealousy that someone else might call him master and spread their legs for him. I should feel pity for the others he might have taken.

Twenty pages of hand-written text was all it took to specifically lay out the rest of my life for me. There was no room given for interpretation. If he made me come, it was reward. If he whipped me, it was reward.

Any attention or physical contact was reward, no matter the nature of the contact. It was almost appalling to see it written out for me so plain and naked. But I’d already known it. I’d arched up toward him as the riding crop had bitten into my skin, and I’d been thankful to have something instead of nothingness. I’d gotten wet from his gentle ministrations as he’d cleaned and bandaged the wounds he’d inflicted on me.

I was his now beyond safe denial. Beyond right and wrong.

The rest of the notebook contained protocol, daily rituals and the words he wanted to fall from my lips. My training was about to begin in earnest.

He left one more meal for me that evening and brushed my cheek lightly with his fingertips. He lifted the back of my shirt to inspect my skin.

I tensed, wondering if removing the bandages was considered disobedience, if I would earn three weeks for something so simple and small. My body shook from fear that I wouldn’t have the chance to prove I could obey him.

“Shhhhh.” He left a gentle kiss on my back, and then he left me alone with my food. I cried with relief.

The next morning my alarm went off at seven-thirty. He would be there at nine. I went through the list, doing what he’d laid out in the notebook, preparing myself for his arrival. I didn’t leave anything out because I knew he’d be watching from the dark room with all the monitors.

I bathed in the bath oil he wanted, wore the makeup he wanted, fixed my hair the way he wanted. At nine o’clock I was in place, exactly as he’d instructed, smelling of jasmine and waiting.

.. . The door opened and he walked into the room, already undressed, his erection swaying as he moved. She was naked on her knees with her legs spread wide. Her hands rested on the floor on either side, her palms facing up in supplication.

The lines in the sand had been drawn, and it was real now. Before, she’d had the small comfort of not accepting. Holding onto some tiny internal piece of her own identity, some vague hope of escape or rescue.

For weeks in her mind she’d thought only of appeasing him for survival, to hold onto herself, so she could think of getting away. Now she was his. The smile on his face said he knew it too. His patience had paid off.

He stood in front of her and her hands went around to grip his ass, pulling him toward her, as if all she wanted was for him to fill some part of her. She wrapped her lips around his cock and greedily sucked him as he ran his fingers through her hair.

He pulled out of her suddenly, and she whimpered.

“Did I do something wrong?”

In reply, he pulled out the blindfold. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. All she could think was that she’d missed something. She’d said or done something wrong. Maybe she’d bitten him without meaning to.

“No . . . please . . . ” She scooted away from him until her back hit the bed. He arched a brow at her, standing like a Greek statue, the scrap of black fabric draped over his hand. Reluctantly she crawled back to him, the tears sliding down her cheeks, and then everything was darkness as he secured the blindfold and led her from the room.

She nearly fainted as her bare feet touched hard concrete floor. He removed the blindfold, and she collapsed to the ground. It wasn’t the bad cell. It was the dungeon.

“Thank you, Master,” she whispered.

He crossed the floor to the mini fridge and returned with a cold bottle of water. He twisted off the cap and handed it to her. She drank and didn’t stop until it was half empty. He sat on the ground and held her.

She wasn’t sure if she imagined the concern in his eyes. Maybe she saw what she wanted to see. She acknowledged she was his, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t aware he was a monster. He couldn’t feel anything. He seemed to be waiting on something, an explanation.

She was sure in his mind he felt he’d been magnanimous. In some ways it was true. And yet she couldn’t imagine being more afraid of him if he’d beaten her on a daily basis and cut strips of flesh from her body with a razor blade. He must know how completely he’d broken her.

“I was afraid I had done something wrong and you were taking me back to the bad cell,” she said quietly.

His eyes hardened, and once again she was looking into the emptiness she’d seen on her first day with him, all softness erased. He hadn’t been about to take her back there, and she’d opened her stupid mouth and perhaps given him reason to put her there now. All she could think was: three weeks.

She’d nearly lost her mind after one week, and thought she would die after two. She couldn’t do three. She’d find some way to end her life if he took her back there.

“No, Master, please. I’m sorry. If I’ve upset you . . . please please don’t take me back there.” She stroked his cock . . . placating. She bent to replace her hand with her mouth, but he pushed her off him and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

He returned several minutes later and threw the notebook down on the ground in front of her, his finger jabbing at the page. In furious pen scribblings he’d circled a passage and underlined the words within it. It was a page about punishment:

You will be punished only when you willfully disobey me. As long as you try to submit to my wishes, you’ll be safe.

The words willfully disobey, and try had been heavily underlined. She swiped at the tears on her face and looked up to see his outstretched hand. She took it and followed him to the bed. He placed her on her knees away from him, pushing her down so her forearms rested on the dark velvet, her ass raised in the air.

She tensed when she saw the lubricant. The last time he’d been gentle and made it exquisitely pleasurable. This time, however, he didn’t seem intent on starting small. He lubed his cock and then, as if there could be any doubt, he washed his hands in a little sink beside the row of whipping implements.

He nudged her opening, and she fought to relax. Slowly, inch by painful inch, he filled her, and she cried out. He waited and allowed her to adjust to him before moving in and out of her.

He pulled her body up so she was arched impossibly back and cupped a breast with one hand while the other dipped between her legs, pumping in and out of her in rhythm with his thrusts inside her ass.

When his fingers were slick with her juices, he removed them and pressed them into her mouth. In a wild frenzy, she sucked, and lapped up what he offered her before his fingers returned to pumping inside her, and then to her mouth again. Over and over he repeated the action, feeding her as she moaned around his fingers.

He slammed into her as he came and then let her fall back down onto the bed, her legs quivering jelly. She lay there, shaking and waiting, knowing he wasn’t finished with her.

His fingers thrusting into her, combined with his cock in her ass had taken her to the very edge of release. But she didn’t come.

He pulled out of her, grabbed her ankles and flipped her onto her back. When she looked at him, he pointed behind her. The chains on the wall. She bit her lip and nodded. She’d never liked being restrained, but he wasn’t asking her permission. He was asking if she’d learned her place, if she would accept it and let him chain her with no fuss or if he’d have to put her back in her cell for awhile longer so she could think about it.

The metal locked against her wrists, then around her ankles. She hadn’t noticed the ankle chains before. They were bolted into the floor and had been under the bed out of sight until now. The chains spread her legs wide.

He pushed a long, thick vibrator up inside her and set the vibrations to the lowest setting, enough to make her throb and whimper but not enough to bring her release. He crossed the room and rummaged through a small closet until he found what he was looking for, a professional-grade camera.

He circled the bed, taking photographs of her, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. She was too far gone and desperate to come. In the back of her mind she feared he’d send the pictures to people she knew or post them on the Internet, and yet still she mindlessly thrust her pussy up at him, trying to buck against the vibrator as if by doing so she could make the pleasure come faster or harder.

He used a roll of film and then placed the camera on the ground. His hand wrapped around the end of the vibrator and fucked her with it so hard she was breathless. With his free hand he gripped her throat, his cold eyes meeting hers.

“Master . . . ” Her voice was pleading, but not pleading to be let go. Pleading to come.

He released her throat and for a moment she believed he thought she was begging him to stop.

“Please, don’t stop. I want to come . . . please.”

Her cries were unnecessary; he wasn’t unchaining her and letting her go. He moved the vibrator to the highest speed and unchained one of her wrists, placing her hand on her breast, encouraging her to rub herself. Then he loaded another roll of film into the camera and the shutter began to click again.

She came, screaming and bucking as the camera flashed. He walked over and kissed her on the forehead and then left her alone in the room. He hadn’t bothered to remove the vibrator. It still pulsed inside her at the highest speed, causing another orgasm to build.

When he finally returned, she’d climaxed five more times and was so wet, the vibrator would have slipped out if not for her free hand holding it in place.

He removed the toy and shut it off. It was dripping with her cum. He held it in front of her face, and she obediently opened her mouth and sucked it as he slid it in and out, until it was clean of her spendings . . .

When he returnedme to my room I knew why he’d been gone so long. He left me to go prepare my breakfast as I stared at the walls. He must have had his own dark room because there were large blown-up photographs on the walls. Photographs he’d just taken.

I tried not to look at them, but I couldn’t seem to tear my eyes away. I went to one wall and ran my fingertips over the picture. My legs were spread so wide, straining against the chains, the tip of the vibrator sticking out, my wetness glistening against my legs, and my face a cross between pleasure and torment.