Reckless Endangerment (closed)

[saysalice]

Even in the complete darkness, she closes her eyes. Feeling his hands on her, his kisses against her naked scalp. She has been stripped so thoroughly, today. In his strong arms she feels very small. He is so warm and hard and male; for a moment she wants to panic, she feels that she can't breathe in his tight embrace, the dark is suffocating - but she makes herself inhale slowly and deeply to prove herself wrong. Focuses on his kisses, tender against her skin - she is alive, she is a cherished thing. It's not so bad. He can hurt her, he will hurt her again, she is sure - she is sure that the morning will bring new pain and horror and madness, in spite of her best efforts to play his games and please him and protect herself. She is grateful for this quiet reprieve. She could believe that this weary peace feels something like contentment.

And then he has her wrist in his hand and pulls it up to the headboard to close the cuff around it again, the ratcheting clicks very loud in the silent room, and Regan feels weight of her despair pressing her down into mattress. Even when she thinks she has given up, he won't let her forget.

That's better than last night, he says, letting go so that her arm hangs from the rail, and she nods, her smooth bare head sliding in the hollow of his neck. It is. Of course he can't trust her. She doesn't stiffen or pull away - there is still a comfort in the calm and his body curled around hers, but it is tinged now with an unshakeable despondency - she is a prisoner, she is a possession. She can't forget.

She turns on her side to gain some slack in her chained arm and leans back into him, her body at an angle, offering more of herself to him. He spreads his long fingers and his hands roam all over her body, soothing gestures, but the steel cuff chafes her knobby wrist and the chain chatters restlessly against the metal headboard and there is no peace.

Were you on the pill? It's a stab of dread, like unexpected fangs piercing her in the blind night. So much has happened, today, she'd forgotten - but then could not really forget, every time he fucked her, every time she felt him shudder and spasm inside of her and felt it slopping out of her. She wouldn't let herself think of it, she has been working all day toward this denial. She winces in the dark, exhales too loudly but makes no other sound. Waits for the anguish to wash through her. Wets her lips.

"I - I was," she murmurs dully. She turns her face into his chest, feeling the sickening chill of fear creeping over her again, into the muscles of her shoulders and into the back of her neck. "I missed my first one, today."

She waits. She is allowed to answer questions. She is afraid to ask any of her own.

 

[ezwriter]

"Keith wasn't right for you," he answers.

He laughs softly to himself thinking about him. The scene at the bar and then the phone calls. He'd check with her friends if they'd seen her and by now, 24 hours later, not quite 24 yet. Well if you watched enough TV you'd know that's when you could file a missing persons report. But after a breakup, would he even?

How long before he panics if he does. He has her stuff. Had she mentioned to anyone she was going anywhere? And really he just wants to know if she's alright. I don't need to speak to her. If you see her... She might have told friends the relationship was rocky... but Keith would never hurt her... he wasn't violent... kind of a wimp sometimes. You let her walk home late at night in that neighborhood? But you know, it's the quiet ones you have to watch.

How much can change so quickly. People would be surprised.

"Do you think he's looking for you? he asks.

 

[saysalice]

She was waiting for him to say something more, about birth control. Instead, he said Keith's name again. She doesn't like it. She doesn't want him thinking about Keith, talking about him like he knows him. Like he knows what's right for her. She shakes her head - an agreement - knowing he will feel it, not trusting her voice, feeling her skin crawl as he laughs, still touching her.

There is a thoughtful, airless silence. She tries to backtrack, follow his train of thought - what made him speak of Keith again? Keith wasn't right for her...because she was on the pill? Regan catches her breath - he will feel it - she makes herself breathe. He'll think it is her reaction to Keith's name, and it won't do. A mirage of broken glass glittering on the concrete floor winks at her from the darkness behind her eyelids. She pushes the thoughts from her mind deliberately - the long-term implications are too bleak and horrific - she hasn't the strength to face them now. She might be wrong. He has made provisions for everything else.

Can he feel her growing cold in his arms? She makes herself be limp, snuggle into him - she has to work again. He can't suspect she is thinking about Keith, here in his bed.

Do you think he's looking for you?

Her mouth falls open in a painful grimace, and she is glad he can't see her face. Does he know what a cruel question it is? It is her one thread of hope, that Keith will worry. She has been such an independent, self-involved girl, spreading her wings, living her life, snubbing her friends, neglecting her family... Keith will be the only one to miss her after only a few hours or days, to know when to worry.

Is he looking for her yet? Will he look for her? She can't help remembering a t-shirt one of his loser buddies gave him for his last birthday:

No matter how hot she is, someone, somewhere, is sick of her shit.
​

It was supposed to be funny.

His friends would tell him that he was well rid of her, his friends would say she's pulled this passive-aggressive crap one too many times - so let her be pissy, forget her and move on. She has to hold out hope that Keith will know her well enough, and will still care enough to worry - make someone listen - come for her.

Tears sting her eyes, and Regan turns her face away - she's afraid he will smell them. It is dangerous to speak. She makes herself shrug in his embrace. When she can answer him, her voice is froggy but not blatant - it might pass for indifference, "He won't find me."

It makes her sick to say it, and she can't stifle a shudder. In her heart, she believes it.

 

[ezwriter]

"No. You're safe," he replies after a while. He is stroking her arm with his hand. Her words calm him, dial down the adrenaline charge that's been coursing through him the last several days. It's nice he has someone to take care of. His little bird, bent and laid out in her nest beside him.

He kisses the bone of her head gently. He doesn't know what else to say. But he would like to fill the silence.

"Stay." He traces a short line against her back with his finger.
"Hurry." Another line.
"I'm scared." A curve then a horizontal
"What's your name?" A curve, then another curve. A three.
"Are we finished playing now?" Five
"May I please wash myself. I must stink." An eight, or quite possibly, infinity.

"Do you know how many words you get now, Regan?"

 

[saysalice]

Safe. She wants to laugh. She wants to be sick. When she moves on the sheet, she can feel the welts striping the fronts and backs of her thighs, can remember his voice when he said: now it's my turn, the look on his face when he burst in with the knife, the taste of blood in her mouth while he raped her, his strange moods and his cryptic words. Oh yes, she is safe. Locked up in this small fortress, this small dungeon, where no one will ever find her, and he will kiss her every day and night, like he is kissing her now and stroking her naked skin, until the day she dies. Safe, she is safe.

Stay, he says suddenly. Is he leaving? For the night? He hasn't moved from the bed, but his touch has changed, though she can't say how.

Hurry. She is confused for several seconds - and then remembers. He strokes her with a fingertip again, once after each word. She doesn't understand -

I'm scared. Regan squirms uneasily under his arm. She doesn't like to hear her words repeated in his voice like this - words chosen with such care, under such pressure, in those moments of terror. She doesn't know why he's doing this, is he mocking her? Against her back, he is drawing shapes with his finger.

What's your name? She can predict him now, anyway, but she still doesn't understand. There is something to this, some strange ritual for him. He traces another shape over the ridge of her spine - no, not a shape, a letter - he's writing a word...

Are we finished playing now? She is chilled again, remembering the bizarre, savage episode that preceded this poor choice of words, and his explosive reaction to them. But he recites the words with little or no emotion. S, he writes with his finger - she grasps at it, the only shape she's been able to identify. She counts back quickly, anxiously - four letters, and then an S. It means nothing to her.

May I please wash myself? I must stink. Regan holds her breath and closes her eyes in the dark to follow the path of his finger. Eight, it's an eight - very distinctive. Eight. Four letters, an S and then an eight - it doesn't make sense -

Do you know how many words you get now, Regan?

Her mind changes tracks abruptly, jarringly - it's the same question from before. How many words? She counts again on her fingers - she had eight, the last time - eight. Before that, five. The S might have been a five...were they numbers, not letters?

How many now? He has run through her words - as if she could forget, she's put so much thought into them. How many? She had one, and then one again - she'd thought then that he would only ever give her one word at a time. Then two and three, and she'd assumed she was earning them, one by one, with her good behavior - but then he'd jumped to five - and then eight, even after five was such a disaster. He didn't go by ones or twos, or anything logical, sequential - how can she know how many she gets next? One and one, and then two, three, five -

Something clicks. Across her minds eye flit images of snail shells, sunflowers...something she learned once and then promptly forgot - but never really forgot. The sequence of numbers: Liberace, biscotti, fettuccini - something - she can't think of the name, but the numbers were something special. One plus one is two; one plus two is three; two plus three is five...three plus five is eight...

It can't be coincidence. She feels a jangle of emotions - gratification, triumph, relief at finally solving one of his riddles that might mean so little or so terribly much to him. Won't it please him, when she can answer correctly? It must be correct. But she feels a deep apprehension settling over her, too. She has been assuming, with his wild outbursts and his basic desires and simple pleasures that...he is not so intelligent - cunning, perhaps - paranoid, crazy, certainly - but of a mind that can be manipulated. She has assumed, with all the arrogance of the college-educated, technology-immersed Y generation, that she is smarter.

But this is math. She can't even remember the significance of it, only the sequence, the trick of numbers. That he's used it so casually, when 1-2-3 would have worked just as well...and that he's used it to test her - it's troubling. Who is he?

She's been silent too long. "Thirteen," she blurts - quick math - smart cookie, nervous of him suddenly, "I - I think it's thirteen, isn't it?"

Lucky thirteen.

 

[ezwriter]

Smart cookie, he thinks.

She is a keeper. That's what guys say, isn't it? His instincts had been right. Pretty. Intelligent. So maybe he wasn't so strange. If he could detect that. What nature was telling the world about her. Nature who designed the sunflower and the rose, the generational patterns of locusts.

He traces it on her back 13, but mirror-written - the backward convexed 3 and then the line of the 1.

"Yeeeessssss," he says, pressing his lips now to the back of her skull. He is warm all over as if in victory. It feels like sweet. Like never before. As bitter and burning as he was just hours ago in Carol's house. And he thinks about what the doctor at the hospital had said about the medication - how it would balance things out, so the swings wouldn't be so high or low. He didn't like the medicine how it made him dull and dried his mouth.

She is the opposite of that. He feels animated by her and hangs on to her as if charging himself. He had been drawn to her - attracted. Attracted by the visual signs - the smoothness and lushness of her skin and hair that spoke to her health; her glasses intelligence; her clothes, her hairstyle - success, her breeding, the proportion of her hips to waistline, the swell of her breasts. It all spoke to him in the primeval language of the body. It wasn't his body that needed medicine.

"Yes,"

She is what he needs. She is a keeper.

"So now you'll know each time how many words you get to speak. Or you might lose some if you're bad. Or lose them all. It's important to choose your words carefully, I think, because they can be very hurtful. So this is a way you can learn to tell me things a little at a time and before long your speech will be essentially unlimited. Just the 26th Fibonacci number is over 1.2 million. I don't expect you to use them all. Just talking and talking, we'd have time for nothing else."

"But go ahead, Regan, I'd like to hear your 13 words now."

His hands move to her belly and then downward to the trimmed hair patch that grew it's believed to hold the scent of estrous. His hand lingers there.

 

[saysalice]

He hisses his approving confirmation, his warm lips moving against her skull, and she feels him draw the numbers now on the smooth skin of her back as he kisses her. She is glad to be right, lucky to have made the connection - what if she hadn't guessed it? - but she can't fathom the meaning of the pattern, if there is one. She is restless with his kisses, thinking she'll never know which comments of his are absent throwaways, which of his choices are whimsy, and which are vitally important to answer correctly - which questions could be life or death. She must assume that everything is.

Yes, he says again. Yes, he is pleased. So he wants her to guess his riddles, he wants her to understand - he isn't threatened by her understanding. It's good to know.

She listens to him speak in the darkness - a long speech, for him, but she prefers it to his curt statements. The more words he uses, the more she can learn about him. She is grateful that he has given her a system by which to make conversation with him, and that she will earn more and more words, each time.

Unless she's bad. She catches on that statement, but he speaks on. Words can be very hurtful - important. She resists the urge to squirm again, she is still and listens, but can't keep the word 'hurtful' out of her mind. You're a hurting girl, he told her last night. She must choose her words carefully, because they can be very hurtful. Regan nods, belatedly. She knows how it will go.

The thought of a million words is suddenly a bit staggering, intimidating. His limitations have been a challenge, but they have kept her careful by necessity. What might she carelessly say, when she can speak freely again? She must always stop to think about what words will come out of her mouth, even when she can dispense with counting. It occurs to her that her best interests have been at the heart of this game. He knows himself better than she can, and he has kept her careful - perhaps it hasn't been a punishment or a measure of control, but a lesson in survival. She is learning.

He wants her thirteen words, now. Now. He is calling her by her name again. His hands drift around her waist to her front, spreading across her stomach and reaching down, covering her sex as he waits. She has thirteen words, and there are so many things she would like to ask him: how many girls were brought here, before her - and what happened to them? What is he going to do with her, will he keep her forever? But they seem like such potentially volatile questions. He has been so kind and gentle and pleased with her, tonight, and there is one thing she needs to say, needs to know. She counts on her fingers, and there are exactly thirteen words.

"I don't want to be bad. Please help me to not be bad."

 

[ezwriter]

They are a different species, women who are free to run and women in your grip, where their words and bodies are constrained. And once molded, even as they exercise greater freedom, the imprint of subjugation remains.

Thirteen words. Next twenty one. She's chosen hers like cherries at the market. "Please help me to not be bad." He imagined this college girl counting monosyllables silently on her shackled fingers. Already, already she was his. He owned her voice and her body, and soon certainly, her spirit.

"I will, little rabbit," he stroked her fuzzy patch. "I'll teach you the postures of service. I'll show you how to please me. How to play the games. Soon you'll be my good girl. My adoring girl. And you'll never want to leave."

He lay for awhile behind her, silently, gently stroking her, breathing into her bare neck.

"Because I never want to let you go."

It sounded like one of those stupid songs on the radio what he said. He felt so ashamed, inadequate, inarticulate. But those songs were popular, so others must understand this feeling. These human feelings.

"I'm not a monster."

 

[saysalice]

She listens silently to his answer. Postures of service - it means nothing to her. How to please him...she makes a face, in the dark. She knows, she is not surprised, that it will be expected of her - that she will have to learn to please him, to live - but it is a hard pill to swallow. It is one thing to endure him, to have him take her, take anything he wants, without serious protest, for her survival - to feel his excitement, to feel him finish inside her, always inside her... It's another, to have to please him, pleasure him, work for his climax. She doesn't want to think about it.

How to play the games. She feels a chilly despair creeping into her flesh and his light, absent stroking of her pubis is suddenly a maddening thing - she wants to reach with her free hand and slap his fingers away. The rest of her life will be learning his games, striving to please him, and enduring his caresses when she'd rather he would just rape her and get it over with - she'd rather feel that she doesn't ever have a choice, instead of this sickening ambivalence.

Soon you'll be my good girl. My adoring girl. And you'll never want to leave.

She makes a noise in her throat. She is careful, but perhaps not careful enough. She can learn to be his good girl, but she can't imagine ever adoring him, ever a moment that she won't run, given half a chance. He strokes her in the silence, the only significant patch of hair left on her body, and she expects any minute to feel his fingers reach lower, curling into her sex, claiming her again in that deliberate way, and is disturbed when he doesn't.

How many girls, how many times has he done this? What if he knows, better than Regan can know?

His lips are against her neck; she can feel his hot breath, but he doesn't kiss her now.

I never want to let you go.

It is less disturbing, somehow. She knows this. The handcuff and the concrete walls around her, the house on top of the hill with no neighbors for miles - she knows this, she has known from the start.

I'm not a monster.

It is a surprising thing to hear him say. It tells her something about him, though she's not sure what, yet. For him to need to say it to her, to justify himself, almost, to seek reassurance - surely a statement like this seeks reassurance - doesn't it? Step carefully. Words can be hurtful.

She must say something. She is allowed to answer. She should say: No; or: I know you're not - sweetheart; or: Of course not. Something. She takes a breath...she must say something, she can't leave him hanging! The words stick in her throat - she isn't even thinking of all he's done to her, she just can't say it.

Shake your head, at least! No, not a monster. He has been calm, he has been kind - this is one of those important responses - do you want to be a hurting girl?

She can't do it. She is frozen in his arms. She can't do it.

 

[ezwriter]

He fell asleep like that. He's not sure how long after he feigned falling to sleep to see what she'd do. Turn and grab his nuts in her small elegant hand, try to crush them until he passed out. And then what? Bite through her wrist? Try to pull the iron bar from the iron frame or lie there and try to bite him open, till he bled out beside her, starving to death with this one last gory victory.

Maybe that's what she'd been dreaming in those restive moments during the night, calling incoherently, thrashing against her restraint. Before waking, startled, catching herself, calming herself, calming her breath.

He didn't know what she was thinking. It was the last thing you could control in a girl. And this had just been one day. When he woke she was turned on her back with her left wrist up near the headboard offering slack to the cuff. Her breasts rose and fell on her body. The faint light admitted by the ventilation grate was rose tinted with dawn still. He was glad she was sleeping, was comfortably kept. It was the first time he could look at her without her eyes on him, silent, judging, frightened. She was beautiful, even without hair, or maybe moreso without hair because her beauty now was his and no one else's. His cock stirred and he pressed it into the mattress. He listened to her breathing. He'd let her sleep for now, laying the blanket over her as he slipped off the bed and crossed the floor to his pants. Slipping his keys from his jeans he crossed to the cabinets and slid the key quietly into the lock, turned it gently and rolled the drawer open.

He didn't know what she was thinking. With care he laid the implements on the counter so as not to disturb her. The shears. The plyers. Singular slight metallic clunks in the still room. It wasn't the sounds that woke her, but the absence of his weight and heat beside her. He could tell she was awake with her eyes closed. She could sense his presence a few feet away, perched on the cabinet, watching her. In his briefs, in his tee shirt.

Finally she summoned the strength to open her eyes.

"Good morning, little bird," he smiled.

"Can I trust you to suck my cock?"

 

[saysalice]

With every muscle taut, she catches her breath and holds it until her lungs ache, then makes herself release it slowly, silently. Repeats. She waits for him to say something. It seems a painfully tense moment. She hasn't answered him - he's not a monster - and now it's too late to say it. He must be angry. She waits for the first thrash of his rage, on the bed, or some chilling promise of pain in her ear, or his hand tightening around her throat. She doesn't dare move, she doesn't dare make a sound. Maybe, by some miracle, he will suppose that she has fallen asleep, and forgive her.

After an interminable space of time, she becomes gradually aware of his lax weight on the mattress behind her, his heavy limbs, his even breaths - she has imagined him inwardly fuming, seething, murderous, and instead he has dozed off while she lay here trembling, paralyzed with fear. She will never know him. Regan exhales loudly and for a few minutes is nearly panting with the effort to return her breathing to normal.

Asleep. She's alone - "alone" - unwatched, nothing expected of her. Her whole body shudders into him as she relaxes all at once. She tells herself that she must be careful. He might be a very light sleeper. She feels pinned to the bed, under his arm - claustrophobic - but she won't risk trying to move it. For several long moments she is as silent and as still as he is, just breathing in this reprieve.

Hurt him. The thought blinks into her mind in stark, black letters, and she twitches uneasily. She should. He is uniquely vulnerable, no weapons on him, limp and peaceful, and she is free, except for one hand. He has hurt her - she still hurts in many places - and he will, again. She could - her mind reels as she gropes in the dark to think of what she could do to him. Climb up on top of him, a knee hard across his throat, sharp knee into his windpipe, pinching his nostrils shut with her free hand - she could hold on, she's sure she could.

Or that sharp knee driving up hard between his legs - vicious, more than once - and her free hand clawing at his face, try for his eyes... Bring her legs up and kick him in the head - hard as you can, remember how he beat you with the cord - kick him out of the bed, onto the floor, into the wall.

She doesn't dare move. Remembering how he plucked her right off her feet when she tried to run, and carried her, screaming and flailing, back up the hill like it wasn't anything, like it wasn't much. He has both hands free, he might throw her off with terrible ease, and then - He might wake at her slightest movement, find her trying for him, and then -

Even if he doesn't, even if she can somehow overpower him, even kill him, somehow, she is cuffed to the bed frame. The keys are on the floor - she can remember exactly where - still clipped to his belt loop, too far for her to reach. She would be trapped here with him in this cement prison like a lowly Egyptian servant entombed with her dead Pharoh.

She can't try to hurt him unless she can hope to kill him. She can't try to kill him unless she is free to escape. She needs him. Regan wrestles with the thought. It's been a long time since she's tried to escape, and each time she resigns herself to be patient and wait for the right opportunity, it feels more and more like acceptance of this fate. Her mind insists persuasively that this is the time - he is so harmless and helpless, in sleep. She keeps herself stubbornly focused on the keys, picturing their location in the room, out of her reach. Now is not the time. She will only die more slowly.

She drifts off at last on those thoughts, and she must dream, because she wakes in a desperate panic more than once - but can only ever remember fragments: his dark figure looming in the doorway with the light glinting on the blade of his knife; his fingers gripping her face and squeezing; his cock, larger than life, tearing into her. She wakes with the clank of metal and the echo of her forgotten cries still ringing in her ears, and she freezes, feeling his arm still around her, listening to her heart thumping in her ears and wondering if she's disturbed him, if he's heard her. She waits like that until her exhaustion catches up with her and she sleeps again.

As morning dawns she is faintly aware of his stirrings, long before she wakes. Her mindless oblivion is too tranquil and seductive to rouse herself, but her senses are keeping wary track of him. His small movements on the mattress and then the blanket over her and the withdrawal of his heat from her side. The sounds of his shuffling with his jeans on the floor and the jingle of keys - her head turns away from the noise. She cannot form the thought, but she'd rather sleep, she'd rather forget where she is and what these small sounds mean...like the sound of the cabinet drawer opening quietly.

She changes position on the bed, registering on some level the tug of her wrist in the handcuff. She exhales, a deep, sleepy sigh. She doesn't want to come back, she wants to believe it has all been a horrible nightmare. But now it's too quiet. It's the silence that truly wakes her, and she can't forget where she is. Reluctantly, she opens her eyes.

He's staring at her. He's erect. Her glasses are askew on her nose after her restless night, and she adjusts them with her free hand as he speaks, smiling. She is still too disoriented to manage a return smile. She tries to see past him to the cabinet, remembering some vague concern, but she can't see far enough in the dim morning light.

Can I trust you to suck my cock? Still smiling. She's barely awake, she's not ready for these games again so soon, and she must be very careful of her expression. Can I trust you. It's important. She remembers the promises of last night: I'll show you how to please me. She mustn't flinch or wrinkle her nose. She spreads her lips into a smile and nods, struggling to sit up against the cold headboard.

"I'd like to. Please show me what you like."

 

[ezwriter]

He watched her, those long minutes between when she'd woken and composed herself, reconciled that this captivity was real not a dream. Her wrists and ankles in leather cuffs and then steel shackle restraining her to his bed - the indisputable clank of metal against metal as she moved.

"I'd like to. Please show me what you like." He heard her syntax shackled to her thin last hopes of survival. An affect manicured by terror. It grated on him like the harsh sliding scrape of the cuff on the bed rail. Was she mocking him?

He needed to see. He yanked the covers back all the way, exposing her. His shaved naked bird wearing only her glasses and his handcuffs.

"You'd like to? You'd LIKE to? I didn't ask you if you'd like to. I asked you if I could trust you. So was that a yes or a no?"

She seems less able to lie naked and handcuffed.

He has the key for the handcuffs and is turning it as he pinions the wrist in his hand. The cuff springs open but his hand grips her wrists and pulls her up, to her feet and leads her to the foot of the bed to the open space in front of the mirror, where he'd bound and beat her the first night.

He moves the wrist to the small of her back and takes her other wrist and crosses it over that one. He shifts his grip so that he has both wrists in his hand and guides her until she's kneeling.

"Knees apart," he tells her. As he moves in front of her, regarding her beneath him and in the mirror. "This is 'attending posture.' Remember it. You'll hold it until I dismiss you from it. And now I'll show you how I like my dick sucked. We have two to six weeks until you're ovulating, so you'll have plenty of time to practice."

He sheds his briefs to the ground but not his shirt. He steps towards where she's kneeling for him, his cock flaccid but stirring.

"Do you want me to tell you what will happen if you try to hurt me?"

 

[saysalice]

She thought it was the right answer, but he takes two long strides to the bed and rips the blanket off, and Regan recoils in startled terror against the headboard - what has she done? What has she done this time?

She can't tell if he's angry or not, but he's too close and she can't get away. She brings her knees to her chest and her free hand up to shield her face. You'd LIKE to? The offensive phrase. She nods jerkily, understanding immediately - it's not about what she'd like, unless he says that it is. Stupid mistake, she must be careful. From behind her hand, eyes down, she stammers hastily, "Yes - yes!"

A whine escapes her throat as he leans in over her - but it's only to unlock the cuff. There are tears standing in her eyes. She's awake now as he drags her to her feet, the concrete like ice under her toes. Her eyes widen as she realizes that he is taking her back to the spot in front of the mirror, where he cuffed her and whipped her the night before. Was her little slip worth another beating?

She doesn't resist as he puts her hands behind her back and then pushes her to her knees on the rough floor. Suck his cock, maybe that's all he wants. Knees apart, he tells her, and she walks them out to shoulder width. Attending posture - remember it, hold it. Postures, he'd mentioned last night, in the gentle dark. Service. Time to service him.

Her face twitches in distaste and confusion - ovulating in two to six weeks. She doesn't know what he means by it, but she's disturbed that he knows her body, that he's keeping track. Tears prick her eyes again, and she blinks rapidly, holding her wrists behind her tightly to resist the urge to wipe them. She wants to ask - but she's afraid even to think of what she would ask him. His whims are law, here. She's too afraid of what the answer might be.

And then his cock is in her face and she blinks again and struggles not to pull away. She's never had to deal with it, this close - even when he was raping her, she could almost imagine it was happening to someone else's body. Now it's under her nose, imposing even in its flaccid state, twitching like a live thing, and he's going to put it into her head. Impossible to pretend it isn't happening.

Do you want me to tell you what will happen if you try to hurt me?

She drops her gaze to the floor, her shoulders hunched and trembling, and blurts honestly, choking on the words, "No - I don't."

 

[ezwriter]

"I'd like that," she said, but wouldn't say if he could trust her. She didn't want to hear what her punishment would be, couldn't look at him. He'd foiled her plan. The last time she'd been unshackled she'd attacked him and ran. And now he was going to put his cock inside her jaws? No. She could bite through him and he'd be down. She'd have a weapon, a bed sheet, his clothes. She could lock him in and be gone with his truck. No.

He fetches a length of cable from the drawer and threads it through the rings of her wrist cuffs and through the rings of her ankle cuffs and clasps it into one of the eyelets in the floor. She wouldn't even reach the cabinet. So now her kneeling position is maintained but she is fastened there. And if she strikes successfully they will both die, bloody and starving.

"Don't you fucking try anything!" He draws his hand back and makes to smack her face, but holds it there, letting the threat of violence envelope her. His hand closing now and falling to his side once more.

What does he like? What does he know about fellatio? Girls bound. Girls at knife point. His cock inside their heads. And pleasing him is life or death. So their attention is always focused, muscular and desperate sucking or exaggerated looks of longing, cold, frightened eye contact. Where is the girl who gets wet from sucking cock? He'd read about them, read their own confessions, how they'd fantasize about sucking off strangers on the bus. He was other than a stranger though.

And now his head is at her lips, and with his hand he traces the crease of her mouth, the friction of her lips on his knob making him swell and thicken. She parts her lips to let him penetrate if that is his desire. He moves in closer and enters the warmth and wetness of her mouth, slides along her tongue. He holds her head steady as he presses in. Doesn't want her looking up at him with silent movie eyes. And so the skin and skull are a round dome that take more and more and more of his cock. It feels good the sheath of tongue and palate and saliva that encase him. He likes how it looks, his hard smooth member entering her hard smooth head. Almost all the way. He can feel her convulsive gagging and her efforts to control them. Her neck muscles, her back and shoulders taut from stress, from the strain of her posture.

Good girl, holding herself so still. As he pistons in and out. Fucks her head and she holds her soft wet parts open like a mouth cunt for him.

"Good girl," he says, sliding in and sliding out, his palms in control of her head like a ball. A rhythm now he fucks her head. Her lips are hollowed and he withdraws until they circle his round gorged knob before plunging back in. She is unsteady on her knees as his thrusts become more urgent. His hands are rough against her scalp. He rises on his feet, his calves tighten and his moans become snarls and snorts as he releases.

"Suck it. Suck it. Suck it," he seethes, his thick cream pulsing into her mouth. "Hold it, hold it," he tells her as the pumping seed subsides and he slips his wet thick cock from her face hole. "Hold it in your mouth till I tell you," he says, tilting her face up to his.

He pulls up his briefs and crosses the floor to where his pants lay in a heap. He hikes these up as well slips on his shoes and leaves the shed, locking the door but not the padlock. Now his feet receding on the gravel outside.

 

[saysalice]

He steps away from her again and Regan looks up hesitantly, head still bowed, to watch where he goes. To the cabinet again - she will always be wary, and look to see what he takes out of it - just a cable, this time. There are scarier things.

He is behind her, slipping the cable through the cuffs at her wrists and ankles, agitated this morning. He's going to put his cock in her mouth, it's a tremendous leap of faith, but - something else. His good morning was all smiles. She's made one bad misstep, and she can't afford another. He fastens her to the rings in the floor again: hold position - now she can't do anything but. Trust, he spoke of, but there is no trust. She may be chained to something every moment of the rest of her life.

She looks up at him expectantly as he comes around to face her, watching for his cues. Then his raised hand, the violent motion so close to her face and the sudden force of his voice makes her whinny fearfully through her tightly closed lips, matted eyelashes fluttering, cable links clattering as her whole body tenses and tries to flinch away. It is several seconds before she understands that he has not slapped her, though the threat of his open palm remains. She can't look at it, can't look at him. She shakes her head timidly in answer and holds her breath until she sees his hand drop, out of the corner of her eye.

Then the tip of his cock is brushing against her lips and she must unclench her jaw in a rusty effort and open for him, be welcoming. She has never been much of a cocksucker, she hasn't had much practice, and she is nervous. It was a treat, bestowed infrequently on very special occasions or, more often, in appreciation of a gift of some sparkly trinket. She never wanted Keith or anyone else to think she was that kind of girl. She is passive now, counting on this man to show her what he wants her to do. She is still, and he holds her where he wants her as he pushes in slowly, slowly, so that she must taste all of him, keeping her lips folded over her teeth as he slides in deep.

Don't fucking try anything. She has a brief vision of just closing her jaws - she can imagine it vividly: the gush of blood in her face, the taste and the severed shape of him in her mouth, his scream... Her bare skull is between his warm hands as he guides himself deeper and she gags, and imagines herself gagging and spitting out the thick length of him, mere seconds before he dashes her bare skull into the concrete. Or doesn't - staggers away from her, bleeding, and falls to the floor, shuddering with the shock of it, and dies - or doesn't. And she is still restrained with her hands behind her, tethered to the floor, she will still die here.

He slides deep again, and she retches around him and tries to control it. No one has ever pushed his cock into her and made her gag; she doesn't know if it's the reaction he wants, but he holds her still and calls her good girl and begins to move more quickly, thrusting just as deep. It's all she can do just to be steady, keep her teeth covered, try to keep him in her mouth when he pulls out almost all the way. Suck his cock - but he's just using her, just fucking the wet hole in her face. His pelvis begins to slam into her lips, her nose aches as it crashes into his flat stomach and his balls slap against her chin, and she is drooling helplessly, holding her aching jaw open, whimpering and snuffling between his thrusts, trying not to panic.

She feels him stiffen against her and he shoves deep so that her throat convulses around him, and she struggles to obey when he tells her urgently to suck it, drawing him in as she feels the first hot bitter spurt on the back of her tongue. Hold it, he is saying, even as he pulses into her, and she chokes on his semen and works it to the front of her mouth, careful not to swallow. He eases his cock out and tells her again to hold it, and she nods as he turns her tearstained face up to look at him at last.

Regan watches him dress briskly, watches him leave with a breath of morning air, hears him walk away. She is a mess of drool and sweat and tears, and she trembles slightly in the aftershock. She's afraid of who he might be, when he comes back. His thick seed burns on the surface of her tongue, her mouth waters on the strong taste of him, but she holds it like a treasure in her mouth. Proof that she has been a good girl, and done as he's asked.

 

[ezwriter]

He exits into the morning cold, the sun sliding up over the eastern hills. He likes to spend the night with them, but likes that he can leave and have this place to himself. It's small but all the space he needs protected by the land around.

He needs to pee. He holds his penis still wet from her mouth and finishes. He makes coffee and eats a donut but makes her peanut butter and toast, pours her milk. It's been ten minutes. He knows she'll have held it for him. But he's in no hurry.

He returns and sets the paper plate and cup on the cabinet and approaches.

"Show me," he tells her. She opens her mouth and he inserts a finger, swipes her tongue. A clot of his cum adheres glistening with her saliva. He uses it to paint one of her nipples - tracing the circle of her aereola and then dipping his finger back in to administer the same slimy attention to the other.

"Swallow it," he says.

"I brought you more breakfast," he tells her, sitting on the bed to feed her the peanut butter on toast and sips of milk from the straw.

"I like how you suck me, Princess," he says as she chews. And when she's nearly done he tells her that she's earned her reward... for guessing the number of words. He'll clean her. He eyes the crusting circles of cum on her nipples as she eats on her knees with her wrists bound behind her.

He puts the plate and cup back on the counter and opens the drawer once more. He returns with the hood and a small carabiner. The hood she'd worn the first night stretches over her head, blocking out sight if not the light completely. He moves behind her to unclip her from the cable lashing her to the floor. Clipping the carabiner through the D rings of her wrist cuffs he keeps her arms behind her back, lifting her under the armpit. He drapes a blanket from the bed around her and opens the door, leading her across the gravel and clumps of grass toward the cabin.

Now up the steps to the back door and inside over the cold linoleum. There's a quick turn into the bathroom. She hears the shower spray turn on and splash on the tile shower floor. He slips the blanket off her. He undresses now as well so he won't wet his clothes when he washes her. In a few minutes he guides her by a bound arm under the spray. His hand holds a rectangular bar of soap that slides over her. He cleans her thoroughly - her breasts and back and legs, her pussy and ass. Cleaning his thing, rinsing it off. Letting the warm water soak her hair and face.

The shower spray turns off with a rusty squeak and he covers her with towels. Dries her as thoroughly as he washed her. And soon the blanket is back over her and she's led across the sharp rocks and cold hard ground to her shed, where he orders her back down to her knees and helps her lower herself.

"Attending posture," he reminds her, removing the hood.
"Twenty one words," he tells her, standing over her, waiting for them.

 

[saysalice]

Her mouth waters. She wants to swallow, she wants to spit. She waits, breathing through her nose. What if he doesn't come back until tonight? Can she hold it all day? On her knees, chained to the floor, she can feel her smeared spit drying on her face and between her breasts, and she imagines that she can feel his come thickening in her mouth. If she moves her tongue, she tastes him all over again, and the texture of it makes her want to gag. She doesn't move her tongue.

He's gone a long time, but finally the door opens again. She smells the peanut butter toast and her stomach growls - with her mouth full of come, it is a nauseating experience. She watches him expectantly, and winces almost imperceptibly when he stops in front of her and says: show me. It's perverse, it's humiliating. She opens her mouth reluctantly, curling her full bottom lip to keep the semen in her lower jaw from spilling. She holds her face still as he reaches with a finger to stroke her tongue where it has pooled, prompting an alarming, reflexive retch. She closes her lips around him until she's sure she has it under control. Her eyes are running with tears behind her glasses.

Don't make a face. But her nose wrinkles and her nostrils flare as he draws his coated finger out and traces the pale pink nipple of one breast, and then goes back for more, to do the other one. She can feel it tickling as it begins to dry almost immediately, and she shudders as her aereolae crinkle and pull into tight little nubs at the sensation. It's such a strange gesture - she doesn't understand it, she doesn't like it, and now he says swallow - and though she's wanted to since he deposited it there, it's harder now. Her throat aches as she closes it twice, forcing his thick load down. She imagines she can feel it hitting her empty stomach and she isn't hungry anymore, even as he sits close on the bed and brings a slice of toast to her lips. She can still taste him in her mouth.

The peanut butter sticks to her teeth, and her nipples itch with his drying come as she chews, makes herself chew and swallow. She is eager for the milk, but the first sip only seems to coat the inside of her mouth, mingling with the other tastes and sticky textures. After a few bites, the food has lost any appeal it might have had, and it is a concentrated effort for Regan to open her mouth for more.

He praises her cock sucking abilities, and she only nods, taking advantage of a mouthful of toast. He'd just fucked her face, like any other hole. There was no skill, no talent involved, on her part. But she nods.

She looks up at him cautiously when he says that he'll wash her. She's been wondering if he would keep that promise, if he would remember it. He hasn't brought a bucket - a different bucket, one with soapy water and a sponge, as she has worried he might do - never let her leave the shack, never-ever. She takes a big bite of the toast to get through it, and looks away, afraid he will note the eager light in her eyes. Will he take her inside? She chides herself silently for getting her hopes up again - he may just as easily take her out into the yard and turn the hose on her. She must not ever think she can guess what he's going to do.

When she has finished enough of his breakfast to satisfy him, he sets the plate and cup up and comes back with some things from the cabinet. Regan squawks in surprise, but catches herself quickly as he takes her glasses and pulls the hood from the night before over her head and face. Why? she wonders, feeling him fiddling behind her, detaching the cable but holding her cuffed wrists together. When he lets go, she tries them absently as he pulls her up - they are fastened behind her, he doesn't trust her.

She feels him wrap the blanket around her shoulders, and then the bright cold light of the open door, and she catches her breath and tries not to let anticipation overwhelm her. Leaving the shack. The gravel and the frosty grass hurt under her bare feet, and the morning air nips at her legs as she is led along the yard and up some stairs and through a door - slick linoleum under her toes, and the warmth and the scent of cigarettes and fresh coffee press against her face through the hood. He'll take it off, now that she's inside - won't he? Just a glimpse of his home, his private life - just a clue about him, how he lives up here with girls locked up tight in the shed in the yard - she needs it...

But, no. He guides her around a corner, a smaller room - the echo of her scuffing feet on the tile, damp smell, a door closing behind them, the splash of a shower - he takes the blanket away, but even now leaves the hood on her, and Regan can feel the disappointment on her face. He is rustling in front of her, she can hear his clothes drop to the floor, and then he turns her and positions her in the shower, at last pulling the hood off when there is nothing to see but the inside of this tiled space, much smaller than her little concrete room, and his naked body inches away.

She's not sure of her expression as he guides her under the warm spray, and she is glad for the excuse to close her eyes. He is silent, he has said nothing to her since they stepped across the threshold, and she wonders if he is uneasy, bringing her into his home. He rubs the wet bar of soap over her skin and she keeps her eyes firmly closed. She had hoped to be allowed to do this, herself - but she must learn not to hope.

With his hands he tweaks the film of come from her nipples, rubs gently along the ridges of the welts on her thighs, works her pubic hair into a froth. His slippery fingers part her thighs and push between her labia, the soap stinging just a bit as he cleans the delicate folds. She cries out helplessly when his fingers brush her clit and she experiences a disturbing jolt of something like pleasure. He will wash every part of her. She reminds herself that she asked for this.

It's worse when he turns her gently and gently parts her cheeks to run a soapy finger along her crack. She bites her lips and tries to remain fiercely stoic, but when he encounters and pauses at her puckered pink hole, the cuffs click restlessly on the carabiner in reflexive protest and she blurts plaintively, "Oh please - !" No one has ever touched her there, she's never touched herself there. He is undeterred.

The spray patters on her bare scalp and water runs down her face like tears as he rinses her thoroughly now, and then turns the water off. She gets a blurry glimpse of tile and fixtures before he puts a towel over her head, drying her carefully - and then the hood again, and the blanket across her shoulders, and she listens to him dry off and dress. Then back through the house and down into the yard again, and it has been nothing helpful, nothing like she'd hoped it would be, her helplessness and his intimate touching almost as bad as his rapes.

Back in the shed again, back on her knees in the same spot when he pulls the hood off her at last. Squeaky clean, ready for him to defile all over again. She keeps her head down; he has done as she asked, granted this favor - she should be grateful, but can't manage it.

Twenty one words, he prompts her, but she has nothing to say. He's waiting, and she should be careful as always, but she can't think of anything smart. There are things she'd like to ask - she counts on her fingers - must she use all twenty one words at once, she wonders? Careful, she must be careful, words can be hurtful - but she thinks dejectedly, he will hurt her anyway, won't he?

"What made you choose me, at the bar?" she asks quietly. She wants to know. Has she really brought this on herself? It's dangerous, to ask the rest - the best she can hope for is that he will opt not to answer - but she is feeling reckless. Maybe she wants to hurt.

"How many - girlfriends - have you brought here, before me? And what happened to them?"

She thinks she has counted carefully.

 

[ezwriter]

"Twenty two," he tells her, almost before the last syllable leaves her mouth. He always excelled at things like that - counting Skittles on a plate at a glance or glass shards on the floor, he could tell you the day of the week of any date you could name. Some parts of his brain worked extremely well, others did not.

His hand is on her mouth and he is squeezing her lips forward between his palm and fingers. "Thirteen plus eight is twenty one," he tells her. "Stand up." He pulls her up by the lips, by the mouth he fucked. He draws her across the floor in front of the mirror again to the eyelets in the floor.

"Legs apart. You'll start from one again. And you can think about that word." He is back at the cabinets retrieving more implements - clips to fasten her ankles to the floor at shoulder width, the wadded, now dried blue panties are tucked back in her mouth. He unclips her wrists and pulls them up so her fingertips are contacting her elbows behind her. And now he fastens the arm cuffs around her again.

"This is presenting posture. It presents your tits to me." Her nipples are clamped again and the chain is hooked to the cable dangling from the ceiling.

"You'll learn to count better. You'll learn to use the words I give you." He snatches her glasses from now and she'll hear them click down on the wooden cabinet top. She is hooded and she'll soon feel the tug on her nipples as he pulls the cable through the pulley in the ceiling, bringing her back to the balls of her feet as on the first night.

"I chose you, Princess, because you're pretty and smart. I chose you for the same reason your other boyfriends chose you. Because I was attracted to mate with you. That's what humans do. I'm not a monster."

There is the pull of the drawer and some more rustling and motion. An unscrewing, a squeezing of a thick liquid. He moves behind her and splays his large hand to open her cheeks. She'll feel the cool liquid gel first and then the blunt tip of the plug. The rounded tip stretches her puckered entrance. She rises up on her toes to flee the invasion, but his free hand on her belly steadies her. Holds her there as the fat rubber knob penetrates her rectum. The plug stretches and fills her...advancing slowly and steadily as his hand guides it inside her. When he's done, the wide flat base rests between her toned, taut cheeks as she steadies herself on the balls of her feet.

"I'm a male. And you're my female. The others... they disobeyed me too many times."
His boots retreat across the cement slab floor. The door lock. The padlock. The muffled sound of boots on gravel... and then nothing.

 

[saysalice]

He cuts her off abruptly: twenty two. Regan blinks up at him, eyes widening in fear and disbelief. Has he really had twenty two girls -

His hand on her face, pinching her face hard, making her look at him, drives the thoughts out. Thirteen plus eight - she scrambles to understand as he pulls her to her feet, not waiting for her. Twenty one? No - no - it was twenty one, she counted! He's wrong...as she follows him, tripping after him, tip-toeing over the row of rings in the floor - he's wrong, isn't he? She tries to count again, but he is telling her to spread her legs, telling her she's back to one word, and she grits her teeth to keep from crying out in dismay - she's worked so hard!

She turns to watch him at the cabinet and wails in anguished protest through her clenched teeth - careful not to make it a word - when she sees what he is taking out, the scrap of blue satin in his fist as he clips her ankles to the floor. She tosses her head, refuses to open until he takes her face in his biting grip again, and then she loosens her jaw with a guttural, defeated howl until he muffles it with the panties.

The cuffs again, binding her arms uncomfortably behind her, thrusting her tits out for the horrid gnawing clamps again, and she makes noises into the wadded panties until he pulls the hood over her again, shutting everything out, and draws her up painfully by her nipples. She dissolves into frustrated snivelling, trembly on the balls of her feet. Exactly like the first night. All of her progress - if there is such a thing, here - wasted in one careless moment, on one errant word. He is telling her she will learn. She wants to scream.

She hears him open another drawer as she is shifting her weight, trying to ease the tearing pull on her breasts. Will he whip her, like the first night? She could almost welcome it, so infuriated by her own stupidity and his maddening response to her mistake. The harsh scourge of his disappointment flaying mercilessly at her bare flesh might remind her once and for all that this is not a game. Her actions - her mistakes - have consequences.

There is a thick liquid spurt, and she tenses all over, grinding her teeth into the wet satin. So he will fuck her like this. She could believe that she wants it: his hard body thumping into her as punishment, hurting her, ramming the truth of her situation into her until she aches with it, until she can't forget it. Fucking all the foolish hope out of her.

He steps behind her and she doesn't resist him...until she feels his hand spreading her ass cheeks. She freezes - then at the first cold dab of lubricant twists and writhes against the cuffs and chains until the taut cable pulling at her nipples hums with the vibrations. She lifts on her toes and squirms her hips away from him - no! Through her mouthful it is a disturbingly ambiguous: "Oh -"

He pulls her back and holds her still and she whines inside the hood as she feels the tip of his cock - no, not his cock - impossible angle, and it's cold and unyielding - oh God, she tries to say. No one has ever, ever pushed into this tight, secret hole, and at first she is afraid - still and tense as she feels the thick blunted tip nudging into her, stretching her as it slides in under his insistent guidance. Then she can feel how it tapers, how it flares out from the tip inside her, and in spite of the lubricant making its course easy, it begins to burn as it stretches her wider, and Regan screams and struggles against him again. Hurting herself and knowing it's useless, feeling his hold on her tighten and his determined ceaseless pressure, advancing the plug deeper into her. She shudders helplessly as the widest part of it spreads her sphincter painfully, and then her body swallows it.

Sweat runs between her shoulder blades as he lets her go and she balances gingerly, feeling her muscles trying to unknot and accommodate this intrusion. She has been making noises - outraged grunts and bleating moans and pathetic stifled whimpers - which she is still making... The others disobeyed too many times, he says - she has forgotten her question, but now she remembers. It's not an answer - unless she is meant to guess what happened to them. He's called her a smart girl. She's smart enough to consider it a warning.

She hears his feet on the cement, and she stiffens, and regrets it instantly, aching around the plug lodged in her. He'll fuck her with it, of course - it sickens her, to imagine how it will feel, moving in her, her tight ring of flesh stretching across its girth as he plunges it into her over and over again. But, no - she hears the door opening and feels the cool air for a brief moment before he seals her off again, sliding the deadbolt, fitting the padlock in place. Just leaving her like this.

Regan screams and screams, trying to make him hear her as the sound of his boots crunching in the gravel trails off.

 

[ezwriter]

It's warmer now. The sun well over the western hills. He feels warmer too. She's sucked him off. His sperm is inside her belly. His taste in her mouth. It's good to have something you can call your own. He walks out into the dew-damp grass and surveys the valley. He lights a cigarette and returns to the cabin. He washes the dish and turns on the radio - classic rock. Those 80s songs - they keep coming, the ones he liked. It's been awhile since he could sit still and listen to music.

He thinks of her out there, bound on tip toe in her hood - counting and recounting her stupid syntax. Whom does she think she is playing with? Everyone sold him short but she'd come to see.

Good. He is hard again. He rubs himself to make sure. Then heads back out to the shed.

He likes to watch them in the mirror as he approached. After they hear the locks open, watching fear animate a body. Fear of him. That was something to watch. He moves behind her and slides his hand against her taut ass. He touches the base of the plug - taps it a few times and continued to the drawers as she dangled there.

A cupboard opens... and then closes.

The hood comes off. And the clamps re released from the cable so the chain hangs at her belly in a painful catenary. When their eyes met in the mirror, he tells her, "Today it's my turn to pick the game."

The game is called Stacey. She wears a mid-thigh skirt which he pulls over her head and bound arms and zips at her waist so it flattens against her parted thighs. A cheerleader sweater gets pulled down over her head. And now he places the wig. The straight black hair is tied in a pony tail. It's one she'd seen the other day when she chose to play Carol.

"Oh, Stacey. Look at you. You're so pretty. No wonder everyone wants to fuck you. And you let them. " He's bending to unclip her ankle restraints from their tethers in the floor. "They talk about you in the locker room, you know. What a whore you are. How you let Davis and Washington fuck you up the ass." His hand slides the plug from her anus in one slow steady motion. "Yeah everybody gets to fuck you, Stacey. When's it my turn. You smile at me. I let you cheat off me in chemistry..." He's got his arm around her waist and he's turning her and marching her toward the bed. But you're always busy on the weekends that's a lie."

He's got her face down on the mattress. He's opening her legs and unzipping. "Now it's my turn," he tells her as he enters her ass. The lube still a thick viscous coating on her walls - the girth of his cock less of a stretch than the bulbous rubber plug... but his pistoning thrusts push his dick deep up her rectum and with her hand bound behind her she can't even brace herself for his rhythmic violation.

"Yeah, see, I fuck too. I can fuck too. Just cause I'm smart you think I don't have a dick. Here's my dick. Here's my dick, Stacey. Way up your asshole. Wait till I tell everyone. I can fuck too. Mmmm... Mmmm. Huh.... "

He comes with a seething sigh and holds his cock deep inside her until the pumping stops. Now he collapses on top of her. His breathing subsides. It's so good to feel a woman under him. He reaches around and squeezes the clamps to release them. Feeling her tits. Feeling her

 

[saysalice]

She screams for some time, trying to make him come back - and then, when it becomes obvious that he won't, in outrage and frustration, until her throat is raw and her mouth dry around the fist-sized wad of blue satin. She knows he can't hear her, but she can hear herself.

It's punishment, she reflects as the heat of her anger begins to fade at last - the last time he had her strung her up like this was right after she attacked him with the heel of her shoe. It could have been so nice for you. When he's pleased with her, he will let her sleep on the bed with him, take her into the house for a shower, extend her some freedom, a long leash - literally. When he's displeased, he likes to make her hurt, and then leave her in misery. His abandonment is his punishment - and it is, because she needs him, to make the pain stop.

She mustn't think the word 'pain'. Her calves are throbbing and shaking, the pain spiking up into her thighs, keeping her ass clenched uncomfortably around the plug. This cable has no give, like the bungee - when she tries to relax onto her heels, the clamps stretch her nipples alarmingly, threatening to tear them right off her chest. She has only tried it twice.

Was it her mistake, that brought this punishment on? She's had time to count, and he's right - of course, he's right, it was twenty two words - a stupid, careless mistake. Is he so disappointed in her that he wants her to hurt like this? Or was it that she asked about this room, the other women? She wants to understand. Not a monster, he made a point of saying, again. He -

The first cramp hits her, staggers her on her toes, making the cable shimmer and interrupting her thoughts. A painful tightening along her sides, low around her waist, that makes her wary. It could be anything, she can't be sure. Then, on the heels of it, a sickening deep spasm in her lower back and across her stomach, contracting her insides so that she can feel the shape of the burning plug inside her. They come quickly after that - deep, sharp, nauseating pangs as her body raises a vehement protest of this prolonged invasion.

She is moaning - sweating and shivering at the same time, twisting in the ankle cuffs, trying to alleviate the cramps assaulting her in waves at irreglar intervals. If she could get it out, if she could push it out - she feels tears burning her sinuses, squeezing out behind her closed lashes and wetting the hood at the indignity of the thought - but another excruciating spasm racks her body and she knows she has to try.

Bearing down around it is worse, at first, resulting in such a stabbing sensation up into her intestines that she has to stop, and dissolves into shuddering hopeless sobs for several minutes before she can muster the courage to try again. Whatever lubricant is left inside her, it does nothing to help. For all the pressure she can exert, she only manages to hurt herself, feeling the thick base of the plug straining at the ring of her anus - the rest of it doesn't move. If she could squat - she tries again to lower herself, and then to bend her knees, but the pull on her breasts makes her shriek, and bounce back up on her toes again.

She is sobbing outright now, and can feel the hood becoming saturated with tears, clinging to her face, making her snuffle wetly through her nose. It is a concentrated effort to make herself stop - she's afraid she will suffocate. For a brief, merciful interval, her body is silent and calm, and she wonders if that's the end of it - then the pangs hit her again, seemingly more violent than before, and she is wailing croakily, trying again to make herself heard. He must come back.

It's hours of merciless torment broken up by windows of hopeful reprieve, and she is exhausted and wet with sweat, shivering helplessly when the door opens in a blast of cold air. She has hardly any voice left, but she rasps hoarsely as soon as she hears his boots on the floor, a wordless entreaty - he must understand: Help me. Please, take it out.

She hears him step behind her and she arches her aching back, offering up to him, and feels his warm hand slide across her buttocks, and then between them. She stifles a shudder as she feels him touch the protruding end of the plug, and then - he only drums his fingers against it, so that she can feel the vibrations as her insides twinge around it. He walks away, and her chest heaves with silent dry sobs as she hears him open the cupboards across the room. Doesn't matter, she thinks. Whatever it is, it can't be worse than this.

He pulls the hood off without warning, and Regan stares at him blearily, his fuzzy shape in the mirror. The colors of her face will alert him that she's been crying. She gasps as he takes the chain down and she collapses onto her heels with pain shooting up to her knees. Now the plug, please - the plug. But he doesn't. As if he knows. He's been gone all this time, and his first words to her are that he'll pick the game, today.

She doesn't understand until he pulls the skirt down over her, and then the sweater - slightly too small, riding up on her midriff. She can see it in the mirror, trimmed with bright primary colors and what might be a team name or a logo, splashed across the front - she squints, it might give her a clue - but she can't make it out. He doesn't bother to unfasten her wrists, and the empty arms hang at her sides. He puts the wig on her. It's one of these games.

Stacey, he calls her now, and she is tense and quiet, listening carefully - who is Stacey, what is she in for? He unclips her ankles, and she listens to his words. Everyone wants to fuck you...what a whore you are...fuck you up the ass. He pulls the plug out suddenly - her body lets go reluctantly, with a sick flatulent sound, and Regan bleats through the dry panties in combined pain and relief, her legs shaky as he makes her walk to the bed. She's afraid that she knows what he will take from Stacey.

He pushes her down - she turns her head to one side, trying to see him, feeling the ponytail brushing her neck. Now it's my turn. The phrase will forever be the forerunner of her suffering. He shoves the skirt up, pushes her thighs apart and she can feel him hard and excited, nudging at the tender pucker between her ass cheeks, and she can't hold back a low moan. He shoves into her without much effort at all, bouncing her hard on the mattress as he thrusts eagerly, driving deeper, hissing hateful words into her ear. Perhaps the worst of it is, as stretched as she's been for the past several hours, she is looser around his cock than she would have expected. Even though she's never, ever been fucked like this, it must feel to him and to herself that she is the well-used whore he's imagining.

Way up your asshole. Wait till I tell everyone. There's a savage glee in his voice as he plunges especially deep, deeper than the plug was able to reach, and she feels the burn of being newly violated, grunting and gasping in time with his thrusts, her tears flowing freely down her cheeks. He wants her to suffer. It's part of the game. Hurt for Stacey. She feels his cock twitch and pulse finally, lodged deep in her ass, and then his weight crushing her, panting against her.

He reaches under her to fiddle with her tits - she moans weakly, feeling the jaws of the clamps open and the throb of the sudden blood flow to her nipples as he gropes at her like a horny teenager, up under the cheerleader sweater. She is limp under him, too sore and exhausted to move or fight or try anymore.

 

[ezwriter]

Stacey is gone with his erection. He collapses onto Regan as he softens; as his breathing slows and the raw urgent fire in his brain cools to smolder. She is under him, contained. He's fucked all her holes now. His princess. his rabbit. his bald little bird.

He snatches the wig off her by the pony tail. He kisses the scalp, a day's stubble is peeking through the warm taut skin. It's nice they can lie like that together, like lovers on a lazy Sunday morning. Her body feels nice against him. Her nipples are regaining their shape as he presses them gently in his fingers.

He strokes her shoulders and now her cheek.

"Do you know how many words you get, rabbit?" he asks her.

"Show me."

"And you think you can say one word without going over?"

He brings his fingers to her mouth and pushes between her lips to wrest the wadded blue panties, drawing it from between her jaws until it lies as a soaked, crushed lump by her cheek.

"Go ahead. I'm waiting."

 

[saysalice]

She waits. She won't make the same mistake again, guessing that the game is over before he's finished. Not going anywhere, she thinks bleakly, and then he pulls the wig off and he's kissing her, gentle again. Rubbing her shoulders, touching her face. This is how it's going to be. Still she waits, she doesn't move.

Rabbit, he calls her, and her brain announces, inanely cheerful, like a game show host: Aaaand we're back! There is no comfort in it. She hurts all over. How many words. She nods once.

Show me, he says, and she shifts to get her bound hands out from under the weight of him. Lifts one index finger, keeping her face pressed against the mattress.

She bristles slightly at his next question, surprising herself. It was the fear she felt, wondering if she dared, that made her careless, the last time - she closes her eyes and makes herself wait until the emotion passes. It was twenty one words. Yes, she opens her eyes and nods finally - a sharp snap of her head - she can manage one.

Her vision swims with tears and she does not resist as he hooks his fingers into her mouth to pull out the panties, and she works her jaw and tongue and won't look at the balled wad of satin next to her face. Two fat tears run down her cheeks. Because she knows what she's going to say - she's known for hours. Her brain, her common sense is screaming desperately at her: Stupid bitch! You know what he will do to you!

Her emptied body twinges with a timely reminder, and the voice in her head amends: No - you don't know! You can only hope it's more of the same! Any other word - don't be stupid! Do you want to die here!?

Go ahead, he says. I'm waiting.

She lifts her chin so that she can be sure he will hear her. Her whole body goes cold as she opens her dry lips to speak.

"Monster," she croaks.

 

[ezwriter]

"Monster."

Who would say such a thing? All the time he'd been fair with her. Treated her well when she behaved. Punished her for missteps. She wasn't stupid, he knew that. She was spirited. She was bating him, testing him. Daring him.

Did she want the clamps again? The hood? The cord? Or, this time, the cane. He had other more unbearable postures to bind her in. Many, many more. But when would it end? Was she driving him to kill her in a rage and take away everything he loved?

She was spirited. And spirits can't be broken, but they can be snuffed out.

"Monster," he repeated, his mouth close in her ear. His hands caressing her even more tenderly. "Monster," he kissed her neck and shoulders as he uncinched the straps of the arm cuffs and drew her aching arms gently out. His penis slipped from her rectum and his hand slid along her flank to breach the cool, thick flow. His fingers smeared it inside the length of her crack.

"You want to get whipped? You'll be begging for the whip soon, rabbit. Begging."

Like King Kong. Like the Minotaur. This monster had his captive love. Beast and the Beauty. A love grotesque in the world down there. Because if were human he'd be able to communicate with them, understand what humans did. He would have known somehow that you don't slip a hood over your girlfriend's shaved head and pull her off the bed by her shoulder. You wouldn't lead her naked over cold sharp gravel down a path leading further from the cabin. You wouldn't need to take a flashlight and the threadbare blanket. You wouldn't steady her harm with your hands as you led her into a culvert and yanked a plywood hatch off of a hole dug into the hillside.

"Get in," the monster tells her. She feels her way into what she's entering - a threshold of bricks and concrete but inside that ledge the bare dirt of the hillside. He tugs the hood off her head so she can momentarily see the winter sky. Her eyes follow the flashlights beam as far it goes - not far, not more than 8 feet in and the height of cave not more than 5 feet. The chill of the coldest part of the morning lives here. And now so will she. He hands her the blanket.

"The next time you see me, you get one word again. And I'll tell you what that one word is. 'Yours'. Don't make me have to get another one."

The last thing she'll see is the plywood hatch being placed across the opening. Now it is dark and the sound of rocks being rolled into place echo in her small lightless space. Big rocks, heavy rocks. More rocks.

 

[saysalice]

What are you doing? the voice in her head asks flatly as the word leaves her lips and she feels the almost imperceptible stiffening of his body on top of her, the subtlest change. She doesn't know. She has spent the day in pain, and he came back just to rape her again - but now it's over, he's spent - pleased with her, ready to be kind, ready to start over. What is she thinking?

She waits for his anger, his violence, hands around her throat, but there is only the gentle movement of his fingers on her skin in the ominous silence, and then his voice in her ear - toneless, inscrutable. Repeating the word, reminding her of her choice. Her tears are cold on her face and she holds her breath as he kisses her and strips the Stacey-clothes off her, unfastens the cuffs. Maybe he's not angry. She is still as she feels him pull his softened cock from her battered ass, and only utters the tiniest whimper when his fingers run slick along her tender crack.

You want to get whipped? He sounds so terribly calm, leaving her on the bed to move to the cabinet again. You'll be begging for the whip soon, rabbit. Begging.

She doesn't look up, she doesn't move. She's asked for this, whatever he is taking out of the drawers, whatever he decides to do with her now. She puts her head down on the mattress, and only croaks in surprise when he pulls her up again and puts the hood on her, drags her to her feet and makes her walk.

Leaving the shed - she stumbles on aching legs, but he drags her along - into the house? No. Out in the yard? He's going to kill her, she thinks suddenly - she is sure, suddenly. Too messy, in the shed. She's asked for this. She is blubbering again as they walk on and on, further from the house than she has been yet. She doesn't want to die - not really. Think of something, say something! But the voice in her head is sullenly silent.

He stops finally and she waits, shivering, blind, for the deafening, obliterating point-blank blast of a pistol, or the first tearing slash of his knife, or his strong bare hands on her - maybe he'll prefer to take it from her, like everything else. The hollow scrape of wood startles her, but she doesn't understand the sound. He tells her: Get in, and she hesitates until he prods her in the right direction. Get in - to what?

She stretches out her arms, fingers splayed, but stubs a toe against the bricks first, and automatically steps up, feeling the chill emanating from the hollow - another shed? Her head bumps against the top of the hole and she has to duck, feeling her way with her hands above her, taking a step in, her bare toes sinking into the frosted earth before he pulls the hood off and lets her see. Her breath plumes in the beam of the flashlight - there is nothing to see, it's a hole - just bare cold earth and a few exposed roots, not tall enough to let her stand. Rabbit hole, she thinks. Or - my grave.

She turns back to face him, sure there will be a gun on her, just waiting for her to look him in the eye once more...but there isn't. Just the bright spot of his flashlight and his featureless silhouette against the pink streaks of the sky. The sun is down. He passes her a blanket, tells her the next word: Yours. When he sees her again. Don't make him get another one. Don't make him do it. She shudders, stooped naked in the hole - it's several degrees colder in here, like an ice box.

Then he is pushing the plywood back across, and the full understanding sinks into her bones. Leaving her here. He's not going to hurt her, not going to kill her - just leaving her, buried alive for the night - or maybe longer. She listens to him pushing boulders up against the plywood, sealing the hole off tightly, and as the seam of pale light disappears she feels an irrational wave of childish panic at being left alone in the dark - in such darkness. She tries to cry out, but her voice is gone after a day of screaming. She pounds on the plywood with her palm, already feeling the firm resistance, squeaking her pleas. And knows he won't let her out. She leans her head against the wood, pressing her ear to it, too dejected to cry as she hears him walk away.

The cold travels up her ankles and settles in her aching calves. She doesn't know if it will get cold enough to freeze to death, out here, but she won't take that chance. She shakes out the blanket - it doesn't seem thick enough to do her much good, but it will be better than nothing. Remembering her mother's winter warnings - with a pang of heartache, to think of her mother - that body heat leaves the head, she pulls the blanket up in a hood over her, first. Standing barefoot on the cold ground all night seems unwise, too, so she stretches the blanket, crouching, until she can step on it. She's been on her feet all day. She'd rather not sit on the ground, but she won't last the night like this, so she leans her weight against the plywood and cocoons herself in the rest of the blanket, curling up to make herself small. It is warm enough, for now.

He'll come back. She doesn't want to die, and he doesn't want her dead - this is punishment, this is a warning. He will make her sorry, he will wear her down. Until she's grateful. Happy to see him. She thumps her head against the plywood every few minutes. She's afraid to fall asleep.