Chapter 10
Raya
I groan out loud as I roll over on the couch.
This man doesn’t even have to touch me to torture me. He doesn’t have to lay a finger on me to cause my death.
There’s no way for me to deny what happened last night. He ejaculated all over my skin. The remains of it are now dry and flaking off.
Maybe I should be grateful he didn’t touch me. But that’s insane.
He shouldn’t be doing any of this. He has no right to keep me here.
I have realized very quickly that my captivity doesn’t faze him. The man doesn’t possess that part in his brain that questions if what he’s doing is right or wrong.
He leaped out of this room so quickly last night he didn’t even bother to attach my chain close enough so I could climb in bed.
My body is killing me this morning, every muscle sore. My eyelids are heavy and swollen from crying all night. The terror of being here is a drain on every system in my body.
I didn’t pull the shirt back over my head, taking heed of his warning. I didn’t want to risk the chance of wiping any of his cum that’s staining my skin.
I’m locked in a sound deprivation chamber. I can’t hear anything.
I can’t tell if he’s standing right outside of the door. I can’t even tell if he’s in the house.
It doesn’t give me hope. It doesn’t help me in any way.
I don’t move when the bedroom door opens, taking just a little bit of pride in the puffiness in his own face.
It seems he didn’t get any better sleep than I did.
I swallow as I consider what a bad night of sleep might mean for him.
Will it make him easier to anger? Will it make him more ready to hurt me, despite him not having touched me at all since those times he tried to brush hair from my face?
He remains silent as he crosses the room and removes the lock from the far end of the chain. The collar around my neck is itchy on my skin, but I don’t reach out to touch it.
I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much it bothers me.
He’s already taken so much from me just by me being here.
He’s as silent as I am as he lifts the end of the chain and begins to walk toward the bathroom.
I follow him because it’s the easier choice.
If he yanks on the length of the chain, it has the ability to hurt me without him even laying a finger on me.
I don’t want pain. As much as I hate my life, I realized I want to live. I want a chance for things to be different.
Instead of making a verbal demand, he lifts his free hand and points to the shower. I don’t argue because I know it won’t do any good.
He’s not going to change his mind. He’s not going to pull this collar off my throat and tell me to leave. Any effort, any begging, would only fall on deaf ears.
I drop my eyes to the floor as I shove the sweats off my body. I glare at him, more than a little irritated with being in this situation, but he doesn’t notice my eyes.
His own gaze is locked on my breasts and his cum that’s drying there. A little light and only what I can describe as arousal fills his eyes. Like a switch has been flipped, he no longer looks tired, and I know there’s danger in that.
“Shower,” he grunts, as if I’m wasting his time.
I kick the sweats away with a little more force than I intended, but his eyes remain on me instead of following them as they fly across the room.
The shower is a godsend for my aching muscles. I allow myself a little more time under the stream than I did yesterday.
Unlike yesterday, I don’t hesitate to use the products lined up on the shower wall. I shampoo and condition my hair, waiting until the end to wash my body.
I give him my back when I go to wash between my legs, facing the showerhead until my body is free from the suds.
“Don’t,” he snaps when I reach for the shower knobs.
I turn to face him, ready to argue.
“Play with yourself,” he commands.
I can’t help the way my jaw drops open.
“You can’t be serious,” I say, keeping my voice as calm as I can manage, but I know he can hear the tremble in my words.
He doesn’t speak. He just watches me. Silence is the repeat of his command.
The tears burning in my eyes don’t take long to flow down my cheeks.
I swallow, my throat dry despite standing under the showerhead as my hand opens and closes, clenching into a fist repeatedly.
“I can’t,” I tell him, dropping my eyes to my feet.
Silence fills the room, forcing me to look back up at him.
He’s unwavering in the doorway.
My hand moves to my stomach when he takes a half step forward. The threat is there. The words he’s said more than once to me, do it or I’ll do it myself.
The thought of him touching me makes bile rise in the back of my throat. I don’t want that. I’ll never want that from him.
Faking an orgasm for a man is something I’ve never done. Not because my life has been filled with great sex, meaning there was no need for it.
My college professor never took the time, care, or concern to even make sure I experienced pleasure at his touch. What I do know how to do is reach that peak on my own. It’s the only satisfaction I’ve had in the last handful of years.
It won’t happen today. Faking it is my only option, and the quicker I do that, the quicker I can put clothes back on.
I angle my head back, locking my eyes on the ceiling as my fingers slip over my delicate flesh, my chest heaving up and down, my raw emotions on full display as I touch myself the way he commanded me to.
I try for a fake moan, but it feels awkward on my tongue.
When I’ve touched myself in the privacy of my own bedroom, I’ve always felt ashamed. I’ve always imagined that someone could hear me and that wouldn’t be unheard of in a house full of staff.
Never having a conversation about sex with my parents, I have no idea how they’d react, how they’d respond, if they were to catch me doing this, or even worse, if someone mentioned what I was doing behind closed doors to them.
I wouldn’t put it past my father to put me into a chastity belt like it were the 1800s, had he been told that someone heard me pleasuring myself.
I jerk in disgust, my body trembling from head to toe.
As I pull my hand away and meet his eyes, I say “I’m done.”
He scoffs, his head shaking a little. “The fuck you are.”
“I-I can’t do it twice,” I stammer, my throat working on yet another swallow.
“You didn’t do it the first time.”
“I did,” I lie. “I swear I did.”
“If that’s what you look like when you come, it only means that it’s something we’re going to have to work on.” There’s a threat in his words and it terrifies me.
“Does this make it easier?” he asks, pulling down the front of the sweats.
I may have faked it and that may have displeased him, but it didn’t stop his body from reacting to me touching myself. The long, thickly veined erection pointing directly at me is a threat on its own, and I have no doubt that he will use it as a weapon if I don’t obey his every command.
I’m also not under the illusion that doing exactly what he says wouldn’t make things end in exactly that same way.
He’s going to hurt me. He’s going to rape me. I know it. As sure as I know my father is going to win the presidential election.
It’s damn near written in stone, but I figure doing what he says, obeying every command, being compliant and complacent, will put it off as long as possible.
I want to look away, but I can’t as he begins stroking the length of himself.
“Play with your cunt,” he growls.
My hand trembles as I once again rub it down my belly to the apex of my thighs. I lick at my lips at the realization that it feels different this time.
I hate getting the small tingle of arousal at touching myself in front of him. I feel guilty and ashamed that my body is responding, despite the fact that I can’t seem to look away. My eyes are locked on his working hand.
In my head, I’m disgusted. My mind knows this is wrong, but my body is not on the same wavelength as the thoughts in my head.
I let my gaze wander from his hand, up his muscled torso to the way his shoulder flexes with every stroke.
He doesn’t look like a monster when he’s pleasuring himself, even though his actions are inherently devious.
His eyes meet mine for the briefest moment, and I avert my gaze once again.
My legs begin to tremble as my fingers work faster of their own accord.
It feels good, the pleasure I’m giving myself, and that carries its own set of problems. I don’t want this. I know I don’t want this.
But I also don’t know that I’ll be able to stop if that is the next command he gives me. My mouth hangs open, droplets of water catching on my lower lip, and I can almost pull myself from this situation.
I can picture myself doing this for a man that cares for me rather than performing for a man who only wants to hurt me.
I hate myself for being as turned on as I am. I’m disgusted as that spark, the tingle that always grows low in my belly, ignites. How fucked up is it that I want the impending orgasm as much as I want him to release me. I crave both in equal measure.
“That’s a good girl,” he says, his voice so low I can barely hear the words.
My first instinct is to growl at him. My next instinct is to pull my hand away but I’m a slave to the way it feels, to have something good happening to my body in such a terrible situation.
I once again chance a look into his eyes and realize he’s not patronizing me the way so many others have that have sent an ounce of praise my way. He didn’t say it because it’s a reward for him. He didn’t say it in an effort to get something from me.
He said it because he meant it. He’s pleased with the way I’m touching myself.
He’s pleased with the pleasure I’m feeling and that’s something I’ve never had in my life.
Most people are fake and only out for themselves.
They say thank you because they know that increases the chances of getting more from someone.
A gasp escapes my throat, and that garners a reaction from him as well.
I find that when his hand strokes faster, when his grip gets tighter, I’m mimicking his actions. My fingers swirl faster. I press a little harder. My pleasure elevates.
“I’m going to come,” I say more to myself than to him.
I’m shocked. I’m floored. I’m completely surprised that it’s even happening.
The muscles in my legs tighten and it happens, bliss swirls through my body.
The pleasure fades as quickly as it arrived.
It doesn’t take but a second for shame, for an absolute disgust, to wash over me much like the water dripping down my back.
He steps closer, his hands still working his cock, but instead of touching me like I fear, he grunts and once again comes all over my skin.
“Clean yourself up,” he snaps, before rushing out of the bathroom.