20 EMMA
Dax closes the piercings the next day. And not just with regular rings that have bolts that are screwed in place. No, Dax wants my pussy fully and firmly shut. So he uses full rings that he solders closed. Each ring goes through two holes, one on each labia, then he closes them permanently.
He straps me down tighter than ever before, the leather around my hips and thighs so tight it digs into my skin. Then he takes great care to cover my skin around the rings with heat-proof material before starting the soldering process.
I lie deadly still while he works, not daring to move or twitch a single muscle, afraid to get the burning hot tin on my skin.
“All closed up,” Dax says after a tense half hour. Grabbing the top of my pussy, he gives it a firm pinch. “No one will get inside you until your new master decides it’s time. You’ll be as good as new. A tight little virgin.” He flicks one of the rings. “He’ll even have a barrier to breach.”
“How am I supposed to pee?” I ask in a thin voice. It seems like the least of my worries, yet it’s at the very forefront of my mind.
“No worries, little sub. I won’t make the closure very tight—just enough to prevent any penetration. You’ll just pee through them, and I’ll even leave enough room for me to access your clit.”
A myriad of different emotions rage inside me as he frees me and I get to take in the sight of my closed labia. Horror, shame, and humiliation swirl inside me. A sliver of pride at being under Dax’s control—being the one he wants to treat like a precious submissive. But most of all a sense of finality. A loss of hope. Like the closing of my pussy symbolizes the loss of my former life and autonomy more than anything—takes me one step further away from it by taking me one step closer to a life beyond these walls. A life with a new master. Without Dax.
Confusion, longing, and hopelessness become a heavy weight upon my shoulders during the next few days. Along with it, the ache for something more—the longing for what I once knew—keeps gnawing, and I can’t seem to shake it.
I often think about the woman in the padded cell and her beautiful voice. I want more of it. And not just the music. I want to know the person behind the music. The singing didn’t sound like it was coming from someone broken. It sounded… hopeful. Full of deep-felt emotion. I want to hear it again—to have a piece of that hope. Hear anything beyond the echoing screams in the halls, the thud of heavy boots, and the clanks of metal doors. It’s been so long since I heard music that I suddenly crave it with a hunger that has me itching for more.
One day, when Dax lets me wait in the hall, the itch gets particularly bad. I have no idea what Dax is doing to the woman in his chair, but I know it’s bad—it always is when he sends me out here to wait. The last time he did it, the woman was unconscious and bleeding from her mouth when he finally let me back in. Today, I can tell the horror in the woman’s screams. They tear straight through the heavy door, cutting into my ears like a fork on a plate. I’ve never heard anything like it, and I want to run. I want to hear that beautiful voice again and let it wash away the terrible sound.
I take a few steps away from the door, but it doesn’t alleviate the effect of the sound. Two more steps have as little effect. So I do something stupid. I turn in the direction of the hall where the bathing room is and walk away. The same hall where the singing girl is. It’s reckless and risky as hell. I have no idea what Dax will do if I’m not back when he comes to get me, and I have no idea what another guard will do if he finds me roaming the halls.
Pausing at the corner, I listen for sounds. When I don’t hear any, except the echoes of screams coming from Dax’s office, I step around the corner and hurry down the new hall on tiptoes.
I pause by the door to the bathing room. Dax has taken me here so many times that I easily remember which door it is. But I can’t remember which cell the singing came from. For a minute, I just stand there, listening, hoping to hear the voice. But there’s nothing. So I just stare at the green doors across the hall. One, two, and three. The cell names are marked with big white numbers on each door. Just like on mine—twelve. But these doors are a bit different in the sense that they all have a small hatch.
Suddenly, I remember what Dax said. The girl in cell one. I scurry across the floor and press my ear to the door. A smile tugs at my lips as I hear a low humming.
She’s still in there!
Straightening, I notice the hatch is closed with a simple slide bolt. I don’t think as I reach for it. I just act, sliding the bolt aside and carefully pulling the hatch open.
Pushing up on tiptoes, I peek inside. And there, on a thin mattress among padded walls, sits a beautiful woman with blonde, shiny locks. She’s sitting with her legs folded, arms locked in a straitjacket, rocking slightly from side to side in time with the tune she hums.
She stops humming as her eyes come up to meet mine. My breath halts as I meet the bluest, most clear eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re like gems shining in the dimly lit cell. Her face is delicately carved with high cheekbones, soft straight lips, and a straight nose. And her blonde locks seem to radiate light all on their own.
She says something in a foreign language that I think might be Russian, and when I give a slight shake of my head, she tries in an accented English. “Who are you?” she asks in a soft, clear voice.
Since the muzzle prevents me from answering, I remain still.
“A new orderly?”
Giving a shake of my head, I frown at her choice of words. An orderly seems like an attendant in a hospital, meant to help, not a guard or trainer in an unmerciful place like this.
“A doctor?” Her eyes light up with hope. “Or a therapist? Is he finally letting me get some real treatment?”
My frown deepens. Either this girl has no idea where she is, or she’s delusional. The latter seems plausible given the information Dax gave me about the padded cell. And I wouldn’t blame anyone for going mad from being here and not having the protection of Dax’s affection like I do.
But she seems quite clear-headed and sane as she gets up and approaches me with a soft smile. “Or are you a patient too?”
I take a small step back as she reaches the door, not wanting to risk anything in case she really is mad.
She leans up to get a better look at me, and a frown forms between her curved brows as she sees the muzzle. A bolt of shame has me casting my eyes down. I’m not sure why. I’ve been wearing this thing for weeks, walking the halls with Dax and facing the women on his table without a problem. But this woman doesn’t seem like any of the others here. She seems… normal. Unbroken. A lifeline to the real world outside these walls.
“No need for embarrassment.” She gives a small chuckle that holds a note of pain. “I’m in a straitjacket.”
I look back up, and we share a moment of mutual understanding as we watch each other. She might not know where she is, but clearly, she has already felt the weight of this place.
It’s her turn to avert her gaze as she confesses in a low voice, “I’m on suicide watch.” She casts a tentative glance back at me. “At least, so I think. They don’t really tell me much.” Hope fills her voice as she asks, “Have you been in a padded cell too? Do you get to roam free when you get out?”
I shake my head once, pause, and do it again.
Her hope fades as her voice lowers. “Do you get electrotherapy too? And straitjackets?” Shame laces her words as she adds another question. “And do they touch you inappropriately too?”
Holding up one finger, I answer her first question with a shake of my head—no electrotherapy. Holding up two fingers, I answer her second question the same way—no straitjackets. Lifting a third finger, I nod my head repeatedly—inappropriate doesn’t begin to cover the things that have happened to me down here.
“Do you like it? I mean… the way they touch you? Do you come?” She bites her lips together, the frown returning to her pretty brows. “It feels wrong, doesn’t it? The methods they use here? But somehow, it seems to work.”
Her eyes fall away again, and sympathy swells inside me. Because I know that shame. That struggle. It might not have the same root for me as it has for her, but I know that feeling. Stepping back to the door, I carefully reach my hand through the latch and touch my fingertips to her cheek.
Her eyes are round and glistening with moisture as she returns them to me. She doesn’t say anything as we just watch each other, but I think she gets what I’m trying to say.
It’s okay to like it.
I’m the one to break the connection, realizing more than ten minutes must have passed since I left Dax’s office. I don’t think he’s done yet—he usually leaves me out in the hall for quite a while—but I’m not about to risk anything. At least not more than I already have. So I point toward the way I came from and give her a regretful look.
She understands what I mean. “Will you be back?” she asks.
I give a tentative nod, hoping I’ll be able to. I didn’t even get to hear her sing.
“Do it after lunch if you can. The orderlies rarely come in here at that time. I think they’re on a break of their own. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
I give a nod and am about to close the hatch and scurry off, but she makes me pause as she speaks again.
“My name is Lavinia, by the way. I wish I could know yours.”
I badly want to tell her my name. But as the thought flits through my mind, I realize my name is hidden in the far back. It takes me a moment to even remember it. Emma. The word seems foreign. Somehow familiar, yet not my own. Sadness washes over me. Or maybe it’s a sense of being lost.
But when I cast a glance down at my right arm and see the tattoo, I don’t feel lost. Because I belong. To him.
I have no idea what this woman, who thinks this is some kind of mental facility, would think if I showed her the tattoo—that I’m sick in the head, meant to be in such a place? A place where she clearly thinks she’s meant to be too, so how bad can it be?
Drawing a steadying sigh, I lift my arm and give her the closest thing to a name I can express as I show her the tattoo.
I keep my eyes on the mark, not wanting to see her reaction, and the nervous tension in my chest loosens as I watch it.
DAX001.
I might not belong to him for good, but for now, I’m his. And that’s all that matters. Suddenly, I’m gripped by an urge to get back to him.
I’m once again about to leave but pause at Lavinia’s hesitant words.
“I have marks too,” she says with a hint of pain. She’s looking down at something, and I step back up to the hatch and follow her eyes to see her lift her thigh slightly. The sight nearly makes me gasp. Even though her cell is dimly lit and the hatch gives me an awkward line of sight, the marks are vivid. Old cuts crisscross each other, and round spots rise on her skin. None of it looks like suicide attempts. Those kinds of cuts would be closer to major blood vessels—on thin skin. And those burn marks… Cigarette marks. There’s no way she did that to herself.
“A man I was with…” Her voice is mournful as she explains. “He promised me everything, but this was what I got. He used to cut me with a knife, just for the fun of it. Stubbed out his cigars on my skin. I’m sorry someone hurt you too.”
Hurt me too?
I frown.
She thinks the tattoo is a sign of abuse. A man who has hurt me with no care for my well-being. And that man is Dax.
I step back as I point at his mark and shake my head. Dax is not that man. He protects me down here. Opens up sides of me I’d never dare to explore without him—gives me a place to be me. He does a lot of other things too, but at the end of the day, he takes care of me, gives me purpose, and makes me feel like I belong.
Anger wells inside me, and I set off in a run. Toward the man who owns me—my heart, my soul, and even my thoughts. The only man who has ever made me feel special and cherished. The man I crave with every submissive fiber of my being.