3. To own is to… Tyrannize
Chapter three
To own is to… Tyrannize
I jolt awake, gasping for air as icy water is hurled at me. I’m in the ocean, each breath a struggle for air, but only water comes. My hands jerk, tied somewhere above me, but still, they struggle, reaching out for Renee. The water fills my nose, my lungs and eyes, but still, I strain for the sound of her gargled screams. My head is wrenched up, and if I could scream with her, I would. I’m forced to sit, both my shoulders flaring in pain as they’re bent and pulled behind me at unnatural angles, still secure in my restraints.
“Breathe, stupid bitch.” The command is barked in my ear, like I wasn’t already trying to do that.
My lungs strain and burn as I cough up water, my chest heaving. When I force my eyes open, I’m met with glaring fluorescent lights. I wrench them closed. The hand on the back of my neck feels like they’re trying to dig their fingers down to my bone. A door is thrown open with the telltale bounce of a handle knocking against a wall. With it brings a rush of cold air that assaults my already violently shaking form, and when my skin prickles, my nipples hardening, I’m acutely aware I’m naked.
Everywhere.
I wrench my legs closed, a new, deeper kind of fear taking root in the pit of my stomach.
God. Oh, God.
The next time I open my eyes, I force them to stay that way, my breath leaving me in ragged, wet pants. Coughs jostle me as the grip on the back of my neck disappears, letting me crash back down to the cold, unyielding floor. There’s no clunk of wood or give of carpet. Two men stare down at me, a third joining them from behind. He frowns deeply, his upside-down face looking like a garish, demented smile. A scream leaves my throat as he bends, taking my chin in a nasty hold. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for…whatever.
“Open them!”
God, I do.
He curses. “Fuck, you blind or something? The fuck is wrong with your eye?”
I pant, his stale, hot breath dragging in and out of my nose rapidly.
“Can you see?” He booms.
I nod, a million words, questions, and pleas forming on my tongue, but they stay frozen there. My whole body vibrates with fear as the taller man steps closer, bending to study my eye. “It’s called polycoria, I think. We can give her colored contacts or something if he doesn’t like it.
“Maybe we can upcharge?”
The man just grunts, nodding to himself. “She’s pretty.”
That’s enough to break the barrier that held my words back. “Please don’t do this.” I’m not even sure what this is, only that I viscerally do not want it.
The wiry man holding my face makes a disgusted look, slamming me back down to the floor. My back screams out in pain, all the air in my lungs knocked out, leaving me gasping again through burning lungs. “You do not speak unless you are addressed. ”
I cry harder. “ Please .” My head snaps back when a splash of freezing water hits my chest, growing the puddle already formed under me. The other man, a pudgy, poorly dressed one, aims the hose just beside my face, its icy tendrils pricking my skin, and again, all my fear takes a quiet backseat. Again, water wins, taking everything from me, but this time, in the form of my fight. I shake my head rapidly, but it doesn’t stop him.
This time, I’m ready, but only barely. The spray hits my face at full blast as I hold my breath, my lungs burning. My head wrenched in the opposite direction does little to nothing, and eventually…I breathe. This dry submersion is shorter but no less terrible. Its effect is immediate, my silence automatic. I’m gasping violently as the pudgy man points toward a large mirror. Rapidly blinking, I try to take stock of where I am, make sense where there is none to be had. There’s no bed, just a small toilet that looks to be free of any actual hookups, no sink. I can feel the grating metal of a drain below my back, the cold water pooling around frozen skin in the windowless room.
I can’t help but flinch as a loud voice booms overhead. It’s not loud in tone, but authority, the way the principal speaks over the intercom—they aren’t yelling, but everyone shuts up to listen all the same. “She’s lovely. I’ll check back on this one in two weeks. Her background check mentioned she’s a pianist. Ensure no damage comes to her hands.”
That response seems to please the men in the room. They mumble to themselves, oblivious to my shivering and sobs. They don’t spare me another glance as they pile out of the room, one hanging back to take pictures of me, polaroids. He orders my legs apart, his boot slamming into my side when I refuse. Sobs echo in the room, bouncing back at me like a taunt as I spread my legs wide, letting him snap pictures of my vagina. I buck as his fingers tease the small hole behind it, forcing me to roll up to spread my cheeks. My fingers and toes go numb, and soon enough, he leaves too. Even then, I don’t dare continue my pleas.
Eventually, even the threat of water isn’t severe enough to keep me quiet. On the second day, my brain seems to turn off the fear of water long enough to let some survival and logic slip through. By the third, I’m told why I’m here, my purpose. I think I’d rather drown.
Turns out, when you’re starving, there’s a lot you’ll do for food.
It took me two weeks before the revulsion bled out of me. At least, I think it has been that long. I only get two meals a day, if you can call them that, and it’s always dark. It only took two weeks of the never-ending darkness, of one piece of plain, stale white bread and nothing else, to cave. Two weeks in the water, water I still sometimes think I feel rattling in my lungs. I thought I’d rather die, but they had worse things in store for me. I quickly figured out that, like my parents, like my grandmother, they think I’m worth something. I have potential they wish to exploit, and they’re willing to inflict whatever they deem necessary to get what they want. My obedience. My arms and legs have long gone numb—I’m not sure if it’s the cold or the unnatural angles they’re often tied up at.
Dread fills me at the sound of metal sliding against metal, a sound I now recognize as the lock on the outside of the door. When one of the nameless men, the wiry, lanky one, enters the room, my breath halts in my lungs. They’ve asked for nothing, given me nothing to bargain with. No answers, no relief, no matter how I beg. They come, sometimes only one, sometimes together. They beat, feed, drown, and… touch. They pinch, flick, and stroke me everywhere , from my core to my nipples, their hard cocks straining in their pants as they leave. The first day, their touches made vomit surge up my throat; the second, they made me scream, screams that sounded more fitting of a dying animal than a human. Maybe that’s what I am, a dying animal. If that’s the case, I only wish they’d get on with it. Eventually, though, quicker than it should’ve, their touch became just another thing happening to me. I didn’t… feel it, not any more than the gnawing hunger, the kicks, slaps, and water burning my lungs. My body doesn’t share my resolve, trembling as I shift on my bloody knees beside the cot I was given at some point. I don’t use it. Seems too much like an invitation.
Today, I don’t let him command me. I don’t give him the chance. His thin lips stretch upward in approval as I crawl toward him. My raw knees, raw everything , scrape across the rough, unfinished concrete floor until I come to a stop at his feet. My hair hangs in stringy, dirty curtains over my face as I look up at him. I don’t for long. Soon, that approving smirk bleeds into disgust. My scream doesn’t have time to leave my throat before his fist connects violently with the top of my head, punching it so hard my face bounces off the concrete floor, light bursting behind my eyes.
“You will not look directly at a Mistress, Sir, or Master unless you are being addressed.”
I groan, the copper taste of blood seeping into my mouth.
“Back to your knees.”
My arms tremble with effort as I wrench myself off the floor, knowing better than to take my time, despite the world tilting out of focus.
“Look at yourself,” he commands, and I do.
My head tilts toward what I now know to be a two-way mirror on the far side of the small room. Disgust and misery that go bone deep fill the space in my chest, overflowing and leaking out toward my gut at what I see. My body is gaunt, my ribs standing out in a ghastly way with each breath. My blood is smeared across swollen, cracked lips. The bruises form a roadmap of agony, different shades and sizes, like shitty art someone would pay billions for in a gallery. My nudity isn’t pretty like this. Formerly soft blonde hair is damp and oily. Once familiar brown eyes are hollow and wild.
“What is your name?”
I swallow, turning my head back toward him before the booming snap of his voice forces a yelp from me.
“I did not instruct you to look away!”
My head snaps back toward the mirror. “Chlo-“
Something cracks down my back, my scream vibrating the impenetrable walls. I gasp, clawing at the floor. I’ve been opened up, I’m sure of it. But my eyes find nothing but an angry red strip of flesh in the mirror.
“You have no name, no title, until one is given.”
But my name is Chloe.
I don’t know if I can call what comes out of me a sob. My hands flutter up to wrap around my gnawing belly. I try to force my resolve back into me, but it doesn’t come.
“What is your purpose?” He demands. Something tickles along the angry, throbbing slash on my back. I can’t bring myself to look directly at it. My eyes have gone unfocused in the mirror as I gasp out each stale breath.
“I don’t know.”
Another blinding strike assaults my back, sending me bowing. I barely hear him repeat his question.
“You never told me!” I scream into the concrete, my nails bending against the rough surface.
The flurry of strikes leaves me heaving, my body pressed tightly to the floor, as if I could escape the torrent, snot bubbles and tears clog my throat. The pain is blinding. I don’t feel the chill of the room anymore. My back is on fire, and again, I swear I’m opened, cut and gashed wide. Today is different from the other days, when there were only taunting touches, no words muttered, silence met with my begging. Today, there are expectations, and I’m failing to meet them.
I’m disgusted I even want to.
“Back to your knees.”
This time, when I try to shove off the floor, my arms are jelly. My teeth chatter loudly in my skull. I edge myself up by my shoulder when everything else fails me. Whatever limp position I wiggle and scrape myself into seems to appease him enough. I’m grateful for it.
That hits me nearly as brutally as whatever it is he’s striking me with. I’m grateful…
“What is your purpose?” The question is acid in my ears, knowing I don’t have the right answer, that no matter what I say, it will only bring more pain. I liked the men better when they were pinching and stroking. I wrack my brain for answers, but that takes too long. Another strike connects with tender, abused flesh, but this time, I don’t scream. I float off somewhere else in my mind, somewhere safer.
I’m Chloe Tyson. I have a name. I’m a dental assistant with friends who are probably freaking out. I have parents I hope still love some part of me, even if we went no contact years ago. I have a little sister who never got to grow up because of me. I’m dumb, useless, boring Chloe .
I lose track of the times he strikes then forces me to my knees again. I stay slipped away from the florescent lights and the two-way mirror until the question changes, forcing me back inside myself in 4k, blinding, painful definition.
“Who do you belong to?”
“You?” I croak.
“You belong to the House of Bloom. It’s an honor to be among the few selected. You will show your gratitude in all ways, at all times. Who do you belong to?”
I can’t seem to force my voice above a whisper. “The House of Bloom.”
He offers me a curt good before striking me again. “You will address all men as Sir and all women as Mistress unless they tell you an honorific they prefer. Slaves will be addressed as whatever you deem fit—if you're given permission to socialize.”
Slaves.
God, I’m going to be sick.
The sound of a zipper filling the space makes me shrink back. All the anxiety of the engorged cocks straining against the front of their pants slams into me all at once, that deep-seated sickness that’s been building in my stomach since the first time I realized I was naked.
“Unfortunately for you, you’re not a virgin, which means there’s nothing left to preserve.”
“I am! I am a virgin!” I wail in desperation, because it’s true .
When he strikes me, it’s followed by his hand knotting in my hair, pulling at the strands as my head is wrenched up. I do my best not to meet his terrible dark eyes as he forces my forehead to his. The smell of cigarettes sits on his hot breath. “Even when you lie , you will address me properly.”
I choke on my sob. “I’m not lying, Sir. I’ve never had sex. Please .”
He seems to regard me for a moment before releasing me, letting me drop to the ground roughly. It’s strange to think of a cold cement floor as a reprieve. “Even so, your hymen was not intact, so you can’t be sold as one. Your training begins now. Luckily for you, I’m an excellent teacher.”
The warmth and ripe smell of my own dehydrated urine fills the room, coating my legs and puddling underneath me. The realization I’ve peed myself brings a wave of shattering humiliation. I brace for whatever punishment something like this warrants, but he simply regards it with a smirk before knotting his hand in my hair again, holding me hostage as he bends, forcing his hand between my legs to the puddle there. I gag as he lifts it, inhaling deeply before his thick whitish tongue darts out, lapping my piss off his hand. “I will be your primary instructor from now until you’re auctioned. These conditions will not improve until you do. Am I understood?”
I want to answer him, to spare myself from whatever punishment will come if I don’t, but I can’t, because now, he’s dragging me toward the bed. My skin weakened, always wet drags across the ground painfully as I thrash in his hold. “Please, please, Sir. Please, God, I’ll do anything. I’ll listen, I swear! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
He ignores me, slamming me face down on the bed. My begging is drowned out and muffled as he presses my face into the plastic mattress. “You will learn to take a cock, a cunt, or whatever objects someone deems fit to shove inside you. I will teach you to obey the ins and outs of your new world. Most of all, I will teach you to stomach the pain, how to find pleasure in it, even. Although your pleasure is not now, nor ever, a priority. You will enjoy it even when you don’t. Am I understood?”
I sob, my hands fisting the mattress above me as dread pools in my belly. I know I can’t stop him. Even now, my fight is weakening, my arms and legs shaking as his cock presses against my ass. He groans loudly as he rubs it around on my piss-damp cheeks. My panicked, hot breathing bounces back at me off the smooth surface.
“I’ve found it's easier in the long run for whores to stomach pain if you don’t start with pleasure. We’ll think of pleasure as a treat, a milestone. This will hurt, badly. If you attempt to harm me, I will shove my fist so far up your asshole, you’ll bleed to death before anyone can pry it out.”
His knees dig into the backs of my thighs, pinning my legs open. When the head of his dick breaches my inner core, the pain is searing, ripping as he forces all of himself in, bucking and grunting. My screams go hoarse as his free hand finds purchase against the raw skin on my back, dragging his knuckles into the marks.
“Please.” I hiccup. “I don’t want this.”
“Yes, you do.”
“S-Sir, please.”
“Good, you’re already begging for my cock.” He returns, his hold punishing as I struggle underneath him, his weight suffocating as he drapes himself over my back, pressing into me as he ruts.
“I- I want my mom,” I whimper. It’s illogical, but a deep ache forms in my chest, one that has been hollow since she stopped speaking to me. “I want my mom.” I repeat it over and over again until the kneading hand on my back skims lower, long, slender fingers finding the puckered hole between my cheeks. I repeat it until he wiggles and then forces the dry digits inside.
I repeat it until I can’t bite back the screams.