Comfort Food by Kitty Thomas Page A

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 returned me 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.

EIGHT

    Days bled into weeks and then into months, and then it was fall. The leaves were falling off the trees ushering us into winter as I continued marking off the days on the calendar.
    Five months.
    The first day forever ago when I’d been waiting for him on my knees was the turning point. Everything changed for me after that. I could still form coherent thoughts but all of them circled around how to please him. To make him smile at me. To get his eyes to soften when they looked into mine. The photographs on the walls taunted me. Over the months, a few more were added, some replacing Degas prints in the studio. Something about me changed in those photos. The first series he took still upset me sometimes because there was such a mixture of pleasure and pain.
    He wouldn’t let me forget what I had been and what I’d become at his hands. He wanted me to see it like he saw it.
    By July, the photos had changed, like they weren’t even me. Pain was dwarfed by pleasure, even when there were lash marks on my back, even on the occasions when there was blood. Whatever he did, it didn’t matter. I wanted it all.
    I should have been repulsed by him. Intellectually I knew that was the proper response. It was the victim response. It was the response that would say to the world I wasn’t broken, even though I would have been in more pain that way. It was a mercy to be broken, to be his to the point that it was what I wanted.
    If I hadn’t been reshaped and reformed into the docile little pet he wanted, I would have cowered and cringed away from him and screamed and cried. Sometimes I screamed and cried