anyway, but only when the orgasm overtook me so strongly I could do nothing but empty my soul onto him.
I’d been out of the bad cell for months. I never went back there again. A few times I came close when he’d introduce something new and scary, but ultimately I obeyed whatever he wanted.
After awhile it stopped being about the cell and that perceived punishment. It became instead about him being disappointed in me. I only cared about his eyes and how they reflected me.
In the good cell the warm throbbing between my legs was almost constant. It didn’t matter what I was doing. Dancing, bathing, painting my fingernails. Because whatever I was doing, my thoughts rarely strayed far from him and memories of the last time he’d touched me. If I had been his obsession, he had become mine just as strongly.
Sometimes I imagined that when he left me in my rooms, when he was finished playing with me for the day, he went out with his friends and laughed and talked. Maybe he didn’t think about me at all. Or he watched television and wasn’t troubled with thoughts of me until some small mention, no doubt getting shorter and farther apart, would come up about my disappearance.
I had this image of him as some sort of almost Patrick Bateman from American Psycho . That he lived a double life. One side all privilege and creamy soft-white business cards with perfect fonts, the other blood and darkness. Monster and man.
I found myself wanting the monster because it was honest, a level of honesty most go their entire lives without confronting, always content to hide behind their social masks and business cards.
It was October. By now everything was about him, but at the same time I missed Halloween. The costumes, the parties, going out with my friends. Friends I’d forgotten, as if they’d died. I couldn’t see their faces anymore when I closed my eyes; I only saw him. That intense beauty that was almost painful to look at.
My fear had become so entwined with my arousal that I craved everything he did now. I could stay here forever. I wanted to. My family and friends, my career and colleagues, they were all shadows to me now.
I had the barest notion there had been police investigations, frantic searches, tearful panic over my going missing. I’d been a blurb on the national news, a tragic case of a young woman with a bright future and loyal fans. The speculation that a crazed fan had taken me, or someone who hated me.
Which category did my master fall into? Either? Neither? I’d never know. I’d long given up the hope he would ever speak to me.
But he didn’t have to use speech. Every touch, every caress, every lash of the whip, crop, or cane. It was all communication, a private conversation that no one else could intrude upon. Before, my life had only been words, shallow, meaningless words dripping from my mouth with no real content. Words for the sake of words to make me feel less alone in the world. But I had been alone.
Completely.
Then he took me and filled my world so much that even without words, I wasn’t alone. We were connected now so deeply that to lose him was to lose life itself. He was everything. We communicated on the primal level of touch. Dominance and submission. Master and slave. Nothing else was required.
I woke on the morning of Halloween with a vague sense of loss. I thought it was because of all I’d missed this year. Or because we were approaching the holidays, and suddenly time would have more form as I lost my first Halloween, my first Thanksgiving, my first Christmas and New Years, but that wasn’t it.
My alarm went off at 7:30 as it always did. I happened to glance over to find the door standing open.
I can’t describe in any rational way the panic that surged through me. What the hell was this? I hadn’t felt this way since the first day of my imprisonment when the blindfold had covered my eyes in that still silence, before I’d seen his face or felt his hands on my
I’d been out of the bad cell for months. I never went back there again. A few times I came close when he’d introduce something new and scary, but ultimately I obeyed whatever he wanted.
After awhile it stopped being about the cell and that perceived punishment. It became instead about him being disappointed in me. I only cared about his eyes and how they reflected me.
In the good cell the warm throbbing between my legs was almost constant. It didn’t matter what I was doing. Dancing, bathing, painting my fingernails. Because whatever I was doing, my thoughts rarely strayed far from him and memories of the last time he’d touched me. If I had been his obsession, he had become mine just as strongly.
Sometimes I imagined that when he left me in my rooms, when he was finished playing with me for the day, he went out with his friends and laughed and talked. Maybe he didn’t think about me at all. Or he watched television and wasn’t troubled with thoughts of me until some small mention, no doubt getting shorter and farther apart, would come up about my disappearance.
I had this image of him as some sort of almost Patrick Bateman from American Psycho . That he lived a double life. One side all privilege and creamy soft-white business cards with perfect fonts, the other blood and darkness. Monster and man.
I found myself wanting the monster because it was honest, a level of honesty most go their entire lives without confronting, always content to hide behind their social masks and business cards.
It was October. By now everything was about him, but at the same time I missed Halloween. The costumes, the parties, going out with my friends. Friends I’d forgotten, as if they’d died. I couldn’t see their faces anymore when I closed my eyes; I only saw him. That intense beauty that was almost painful to look at.
My fear had become so entwined with my arousal that I craved everything he did now. I could stay here forever. I wanted to. My family and friends, my career and colleagues, they were all shadows to me now.
I had the barest notion there had been police investigations, frantic searches, tearful panic over my going missing. I’d been a blurb on the national news, a tragic case of a young woman with a bright future and loyal fans. The speculation that a crazed fan had taken me, or someone who hated me.
Which category did my master fall into? Either? Neither? I’d never know. I’d long given up the hope he would ever speak to me.
But he didn’t have to use speech. Every touch, every caress, every lash of the whip, crop, or cane. It was all communication, a private conversation that no one else could intrude upon. Before, my life had only been words, shallow, meaningless words dripping from my mouth with no real content. Words for the sake of words to make me feel less alone in the world. But I had been alone.
Completely.
Then he took me and filled my world so much that even without words, I wasn’t alone. We were connected now so deeply that to lose him was to lose life itself. He was everything. We communicated on the primal level of touch. Dominance and submission. Master and slave. Nothing else was required.
I woke on the morning of Halloween with a vague sense of loss. I thought it was because of all I’d missed this year. Or because we were approaching the holidays, and suddenly time would have more form as I lost my first Halloween, my first Thanksgiving, my first Christmas and New Years, but that wasn’t it.
My alarm went off at 7:30 as it always did. I happened to glance over to find the door standing open.
I can’t describe in any rational way the panic that surged through me. What the hell was this? I hadn’t felt this way since the first day of my imprisonment when the blindfold had covered my eyes in that still silence, before I’d seen his face or felt his hands on my
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