Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Juliet
It doesn’t take long for boredom to set in. That shouldn't be possible, should it? I've been kidnapped and trapped in my own game. Someone calling himself Master is on his way. Surely that should be enough excitement for one day?
I've read the ominous note until the words lose all meaning, and whichever way I twist them, I can’t find a non-terrifying meaning. Who has a master? A slave. That’s who.
But the minutes drag on, turning into hours, and the walls start to close in. I've explored everything there is to explore. Something has to happen soon.
When the door clicks, though, I shrink back against the cabinet. I'll stick with boredom. Please, let me stay bored a little longer. My legs tremble as the door opens.
I'd almost stopped worrying about my nudity, but now it's all I can think about. Not the exposed skin, but what it represents. What it implies is going to happen next.
Master
Slave.
Naked.
It's an equation with only one solution.
I don't know what I'm braced for, but the man who steps through the door, then closes it behind him stops the blood in my veins. Maybe I am dreaming after all. Or maybe I've fallen into a K-hole and can't find my way out. Because this can't be real.
I stare at Saldar, and he stares right back at me.
He's dressed all in black, aside from a red cloak hanging down his back. The fitted clothes highlight his solid, muscular body. I recognize the outfit, of course. It’s from the very first version of the game. It's how I sketched Saldar on napkins back when the game was nothing but an idea.
Then I lock on to his face, and I swear my soul leaves my body. I’ve seen people dressed as Saldar at conventions. They always get the clothes right, but the face lets the outfit down. Makeup, even the clever FX style, can only do so much.
This man… It’s him. His demonic features, all hard ridges and odd angles, aren’t remotely human, but they have a twisted kind of beauty. Just as I drew them. Saldar’s gold horns and ridged forehead gleam in the muted light, and his eyes are black pools, lit from within with a red glow.
Then his lips twist into something resembling a smile, and I lurch backward, slamming into the cabinet. It jars my shoulder, but I barely register the pain.
The mask moved.
There’s nothing clunky or mechanical about the way Saldar’s features shift, but it’s not natural, either. Like sand running through an hourglass, the mask seems to reform as the smile drops from his face. It’s beyond fucking creepy.
The fear I’ve been keeping at bay surges out in a sudden, angry flood. “Who the fuck are you? Why am I here? If you come near me, I’ll—”
“You’ll do what?”
That voice. Deep and gravelly enough that it doesn’t sound natural, but rich with amusement. It rolls through my bones. It doesn’t match the voice actor who played Saldar, not quite, but I was never one hundred percent happy with him. This voice matches what I had in my head.
It’s almost weird enough to pierce the terror, but then Saldar takes a step forward, and his actual words sink in.
I’ll do what.
Good fucking question.
I don’t have a weapon, and I never bothered to learn martial arts.
Even if I had, this guy—I’m not going to think of him as Saldar—looks strong.
I’m trapped in a tiny room, naked, with a guy who has to be insane.
Psychotic. But organized and smart enough to create whatever the fuck this place is and put together a mask like nothing I’ve ever seen.
My heart races as I press myself against the cabinet. Thoughts skitter through my head, my breaths become ragged and—shit—my vision starts to dim. No. This isn’t the time. I can have a panic attack when I’m safe in my own bedroom again.
“Juliet. Look at me.”
There’s no amusement in Saldar—no, not Saldar, the psycho’s—voice now. It’s full of command, and I’m pulled toward it, gaze locking to his glowing, pinprick eyes.
“Breathe, Juliet, and listen to me.”
Listen to him? As if there’s another option. At least he’s stopped moving. I’ll talk to him if that’s what it takes to keep him on the other side of the altar. I take deep breaths, and my chest aches with how thin the air feels, but I keep on breathing anyway. In and out. One, then two.
He waits for me to gather myself, and there’s something reassuring about that. If he meant to kill me, he’d be doing it now, right? If he was going to torture me, he wouldn’t wait for me to get over a panic attack before he pulled out the needles or whatever.
Christ, why did I have to think that?
Focus on the important stuff. I swallow, and there are so many questions I want answers to that even I don’t know which will come out of my mouth until I say, “Who are you?”
His face shifts into that sinister smile again, and I get the distinct impression I’ve said exactly what he wanted me to. He takes a small step forward, and my adrenaline spikes. Is he messing with me? Drawing out the inevitable with this slow progression in my direction?
“You shall address me as Master. From this point on, failure to do so will be punished.”
A horrible collection of words that tell me nothing and everything at once.
The setting he chose leaves no doubt as to what sort of master he thinks he is.
My anger flickers back to life, weak but there.
Who the fuck is this guy? If I show him weakness, if he thinks he’s winning, then I’ve got no hope at all.
“You’re not my fucking master.”
I expect him to react, to race toward me, grab me, slap me. Something. But he just stares, impassive, for a few long seconds.
Then the lights go out.
It’s pitch black. Velvety darkness so thick it feels weighted. My heart constricts, terror wrapping it in a noose. It’s a deep childhood fear brought to life. Trapped in the dark with a monster.
I’m paralyzed at first, limbs frozen by the nightmarish blackness. But a small voice pipes up from somewhere.
Move. He can’t see you, either.
Saldar can see in the dark, but that’s not who really has me. There’s no way this asshole is hiding night vision goggles under his mask.
I force myself to move, crawling slowly along the edge of the altar. There’s nothing dangerous on the floor, but sweat breaks out over my body anyway. What if this psycho has opened a trap door or something? What if he’s leading me into somewhere even worse?
Where is he? What is he doing? I strain my ears but can’t hear footsteps or breaths. He’s a silent ghost, and I don’t know which way to move.
When his deep voice rings out, I almost shriek. Only my fingers, pressed to my lips, keep me silent. “Kneel. Place your hands behind you, fingers latched together. Bow your head.”
Can he see me? Shit. Fucking shit. What if he does have night vision? What if he’s standing there, watching me crawl around like some prey animal, waiting to see if I’ll follow his commands?
My knees go weak, and the urge to snap back at him is strong, but maybe that’s what he wants. My fingers find the smooth, cool stone wall, and I start to edge along it, heading toward the door. I’m sure it’s locked, but what other options do I have?
A quiet clunk rings out, loud in the oppressive dark. What the fuck was that? Did he open something? Close something? Oh God, did he open the cabinet? I couldn’t see what it held, but it won’t be good.
“Last chance, Juliet.”
Christ. That was closer. Wasn’t it? The words echo weirdly in the stone room. My whole body starts to shake, and it’s hard to keep moving, but I do.
My fingers find stone. The opposite wall. I’ll—
He grabs my hair and yanks it tight. I scream at the sudden, ripping pain. My thick, curly hair is the perfect rope for him to hold me with. Flinging my head to the side does nothing but wrench my scalp.
I flail out, and my hand connects with something solid, but his grip doesn’t falter.
Fighting blind, I’m useless. He wraps his other arm around my body, and all I can do is kick as he half drags, half carries me through the room.
When he drags me onto the altar, face down, a fresh wave of blistering panic hits.
He’s going to torture me, then sacrifice me.
I try to rear up, but his solid weight lands on my back and pins me.
I struggle as he grips my wrist, stretching it out, and—Christ, please no—something metal locks around it.
He does the same with my other wrist, and I can’t stop him.
I’m trapped, so completely trapped, and as he gives my ankles the same treatment, all I can do is scream.
I can’t move. My legs and arms are spreadeagled in a starfish, and I don’t have enough room to bend them. The hard stone digs into my hip bones. Panic constricts my chest. I have to fight for every rough breath. It’s dark. It’s dark, I’m trapped, and—
“Juliet. Breathe for me now.” Saldar’s voice is a deep rumble that resonates through my bones.
He slides a hand down my spine, starting at the base of my neck and moving down.
When he reaches my ass, I tense, but he just reverses direction, moving back up.
It’s such a weird, almost gentle sensation that it distracts me enough to get my breathing under control.
After a minute, he stops. In the silence, I ask the questions I’m desperate to have answered, though this time, my voice comes out horribly meek. Something about being chained naked to a stone altar has that effect on a girl. “Who are you? Why am I here?”
There’s a long pause then his hand returns to rest, casually, on my ass.
I tense, heart rate spiking again. How dare he touch me.
Who gave him the right? I want to scream, but the logical side of my brain is starting to take over despite the cloying panic.
I need answers, and screaming at him isn’t going to achieve that.
He pauses, as if waiting for my reaction, and gives my ass a little tap when he doesn’t get one. “Good, Juliet. You passed that test. You’ve earned some information.”
Is he trying to piss me off? It feels that way, so I keep my mouth shut. He moves his hand, sliding over my ass, between my cheeks, as though he’s exploring. His hands are bare, and the warmth of his touch jars with the costume.
I force myself to keep still. “You’re here to be trained. I’m your master, and you are my slave. When you learn how to serve me and I can trust you to behave, you’ll leave this room. Until then, consider it home.”
Not an answer. I still don’t know anything, but all the questions I have feel pointless in the face of that statement. I can barely speak past the lump in my throat. I manage, “Why?”
He pauses his hand, and thank Christ, because he was getting very, very close to the danger zone. If he sticks his finger in there, I’ll scream. Sensible or not.
“It’s what you want. You’re desperate to be owned, and I’m giving it to you. Don’t try to deny it. I know the porn you watch, the books you read. I know you. I’m going to make your dreams come true.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
He’s been watching me? Stalking me? Who the hell is he?
His hand disappears, and it’s almost worse. At least when he had his hand on me, I knew where he was. I stare into the darkness, willing my eyes to adjust, but there’s nothing to adjust to. The darkness is total.
He’s a complete fucking psycho—that much is obvious—but can he be reasoned with? “No. That’s not what I want. It’s just fantasies. Just let me go. Please.”
“You belong to me.”
Even through the voice changer, I can’t mistake the total certainty in that statement. It resonates deep in the sick part of my brain that gets excited by things it shouldn’t.
“You might not want this, but you need it. Your behavior just earned you two punishments. You disobeyed an order, and you spoke to me disrespectfully. Do you understand the reasons you are being punished?”
I don’t answer. There’s a moment of silence, then he pulls my ass cheeks apart and squirts cold lube between them. I cry out, more from the shock than anything else, because what the fuck? This can’t be happening. It can’t be real.
“Answer me, Juliet. You don’t want to make it three punishments.”
I gasp out a “yes,” but my mind is elsewhere because something weird is happening. The lube, which felt cold a moment ago, is heating. Stinging, even. “What—”
“Have you ever heard of figging?”
Unfortunately, I have, and my ass clenches at the very thought of it. Ginger, shoved up there? He can’t be—
“I’m not planning on doing that, but this lube is a strong second. It’s infused with ginger. It won’t damage you, but this isn’t going to be comfortable.”
“What? No. Please.” The sting is growing worse by the second. Like the burn that comes from chopping chillies bare handed, but in the worst possible place. Sweat coats my clammy skin, and when something hard and thick presses against my ass, I lose it.
“Stop it. No. You fucker. Don’t.” I squirm on the altar, but he just rests an arm on my body, stopping even the tiny bit of movement I have.
“Your time just went from twenty minutes to thirty. Say “Sorry, Master,” or it’s an hour.”
The plug presses in, and I cry out. Even without the stinging lube, the stretch would have hurt.
Together, it’s enough to overwhelm my senses.
There’s only the pain and me floating in it.
I breathe deep, heat wrapping me, as the stretch grows unbearable.
He doesn’t push the plug home but holds it still at the widest point as I let out a low moan.
“Last chance.”
I struggle to pull myself back from the floaty place. I want to argue, but the pain is a drug, and it makes the words slide out. “Sorry, Master.”
My voice is thick and fuzzy.
“Good.” He slides the plug all the way in, and there’s relief but not much of it. If anything, the sting intensifies. My ass is on fire, burning up from the inside out.
“Thirty minutes. Every time you speak disrespectfully to me, you end up right back here. Understood?”
I slur out, “Yep.”
He slaps my ass hard enough to make me yelp.
Fuck him and his fucking Master bullshit.
It’s a single clear thought in a fuzzy haze. I don’t want to say it again. Once was bad enough. But I force the words out. “Yes, Master.”
“Good.”
He places a glowing digital timer right in my field of vision. In the pitch darkness, even the dim numbers seem painfully bright, and I blink my eyes a few times to clear the spots. It’s set for thirty minutes and, at the touch of his finger, begins a slow count down.
Christ.
Fuck.
I’ll never survive.
“Take this time to consider the right way to address me. I expect a polite, deferential tone from now on. When I return, we’ll discuss your second punishment.”