Chapter 15
With my arms strung above my head, I stand against the wall while my captor disappears into the dim light of the room.
I can’t see where they went, but I can hear the rustle of shoes every once in a while.
The waiting is worse—way worse. I just want to know what’s going to happen next, because as much as it might hurt or feel good, I know it’ll end.
One night.
That’s all we’d agreed to from the beginning.
And I trust that.
I trust them.
Because for months we’d talked about this, explicitly, building up to this exactly, and I’d lost that trust for a while there, when I thought nothing would happen, when it was all over because I’d pushed too far, but I see it differently now.
They were just planning. But now I don’t want to wait any longer.
I want to know exactly what’s going to happen to me.
The fist comes out of nowhere, digging straight into my stomach.
I gasp and cry out, tears brimming in my eyes.
Pain flashes through my gut and up into my chest. I barely catch my breath when there’s another jab to my stomach.
And another. I tug at the ropes, trying to make the space they're aiming at even smaller, but I don’t have enough give to escape.
Then it stops almost as quickly as it started.
My chest heaving, I catch my bearings. “Wh-what should I call you?”
I get no response, just my captor walking from side to side in front of me as if analyzing me or the way I’m strung up for whatever’s about to come next.
“I c-can’t keep calling you BandAid42,” I say a bit more confidently. In all the time I’ve been here, I’ve just let whatever is going to happen happen. But now, I’m not going to hold back any longer. “I-I don’t need a government name…”
The chuckle is slow and low, and it soothes my nervous soul. I don’t know what it is about that laugh that sends flurries of pleasure all the way through my body to where they linger and stay, but I can’t get enough of it. I do feel like a slut, a glutton, wanting more and more and more always.
“What have you been calling me?” They skim a leather-clad hand down my chest and across my peaked nipple, sliding fingers between my legs before vanishing again.
“BandAid42. Captor,” I whisper the word, jutting my hips out and seeking more touch.
The contrast between the harsh touches and the simple, tender ones is so stark, and yet it’s that starkness that brings me back to reality and grounds me right where I am.
“My captor,” I correct. Because that ownership is so important.
This person isn’t just anyone. They’re mine, through and through.
They slide their hand down my chest again, tweaking my nipple hard and pulling it until pain shoots right through my chest. The fact that I feel a surge of wetness between my legs is shocking. I didn’t honestly think I could cum again tonight, not with how used and broken I feel.
“Do you like that?” they murmur into my ear, doing it again. “Do you like the pain?”
“Yes,” I whisper back, turning my cheek toward them as if we’re that intimate, that close that every single detail of this is planned out. “Yes, I do.”
“Good.”
Fingers wrap around my neck, pushing my head into the wall.
They tighten, making it harder for me to breathe.
I gasp, staring wide-eyed at those dark brown eyes hidden behind the mask.
Then there are fingers inside me, pumping ferociously in and out of my pussy.
Bending my knees, I try to ease down onto them, but I can’t with the ropes holding my arms up.
The strangulating grip around my neck tightens even more, making it harder to breathe.
I can’t catch my breath. Rocking my shoulders into the cinderblock wall, I struggle just to get fresh air into my lungs, the pounding against my pussy hard and sure, as if they know exactly what they’re doing to me.
The pull of pleasure, tendrils of orgasm, flitter through my cunt and deeper into my body.
I rock against the hand and fingers with my hips and gag on my own spittle as I vie for breath.
“Sluts like you don’t deserve a name.” Their mechanical voice wraps around me, consuming everything I hear aside from my own gasps for air. “You’re nothing more than a body to fuck, to be used, to be abused.”
I swallow back a moan, those tingles of pleasure growing faster and faster, to the point that I can barely keep up with them.
I can’t breathe. My lungs burn as I can’t get enough oxygen into my body.
My head swims in and out of blackness, my vision going dark and then bright like I’m in a nightclub with flashing lights.
All I can do is feel. The brutal way those fingers pound into me, the tightening grasp against my throat, the tightness in my chest. I don’t even know how I’m still conscious, how I’m still managing to stay awake. The ropes are the only thing keeping me upright.
Everything is so overwhelming. Each sensation hits me hard, like it’s the first time, and so intense that I’m going to black out from it.
My heart hammers, my body’s on fire, every inch of my skin is alight and waiting for touch, and each time the cinderblock scrapes against my back, it’s another wave of fire through me, culminating straight between my legs. I’m about to combust.
I gasp and gag, vying for whatever little edge I can take. And then it hits me. Orgasm, blackness, pleasure, pain—all at the same time. My vision is completely gone, and my heart continues to race. My ears are full of white noise. And all I hear is my captor.
“Master. You’ll call me master.”