Chapter 17
My butt is so cold. I blink my eyes blearily and shift slightly, but it’s so damn hard to focus on anything right now.
Sliding a little, I stop. Not only is my butt frozen, but so is my back.
I’m pressed against the edge of the wall, sitting on my ass—or rather slumped down—barely keeping upright.
The only thing helping is probably the rope still tied around my wrists and held above my head.
I’m not standing any longer, and I have a bit more give in the tension of the rope.
I slide one leg out from under my body and the other one moves with it, the bar rattling on the concrete floor as it jostles.
I groan. Every muscle in my body hurts, and I’m not sure it’s ever going to feel right again.
My ass, my asshole, my legs, my toes, my arms and fingers, literally everything hurts.
Yet, I feel so damn good at the same time.
Sated.
For the first time in ages, it’s as if my needs really have been taken care of, as if they matter to someone.
My throat is so dry, and my mouth parched.
I haven’t had anything to drink since I was taken from the house and I spilled the wine all over the landing and stairs.
My stomach grumbles, reminding me it’s been even longer since I ate.
I must be alone. Because if my captor—no, my master—was here, surely they would see that I’m awake by now and be coming over to either check on me or fuck me or beat me.
I hope I passed the test—whatever test they gave.
Moving again, I stretch my legs out in front of me and point my toes toward the far wall that I can’t even see.
The dim light that had been on is only enough to make out the pillory that still stands in the center of the room like a pillar to my torment and pleasure all wrapped up in one.
“Are you here?” I ask, my voice so raspy that I’m not even sure how the words form properly on my tongue.
I swallow, trying to wet my mouth and throat, but I’m not sure it’s going to do me any good.
When I get no reply, I don’t panic. I know my master can’t be far.
They wouldn’t leave me here on my own like that.
For some reason, I trust that deeply. If I’m tied up, they’ll be nearby, listening in, or watching me somehow.
They have been for months now, and it’s clear that, even while we had quite the period of silence, they were still watching over me.
I point my toes again, turning my ankles to stretch my muscles out.
The ache in them is sweet and tender, exactly what I want to feel when I’ve been used exactly like I dream of.
How long will this break last? How much time is even left?
They’d said I was theirs for the night, and I agreed to that, but how many hours total will they keep me before release?
The bigger question I need answered is if I even want to be released.
Something about being in this dank basement, naked and stripped of every type of protection and mask I could possibly have, has enlightened me.
This is who I am. Or perhaps, it’s who I want to become, because I’m certainly not fully me—at least not yet.
But with my master's help, maybe I can become that.
“Will you help me?” I ask the empty room, knowing full well that I’m alone. “Will you help me become me again?” My voice cracks on the last word. Hot tears slip down my cheeks, sliding over my skin and falling onto my chest and dripping down to my breasts.
Why does that sadden me so much?
Without having to think deeply, I already have the answer. For years, I’ve molded myself into someone I’m not and into someone I never wanted to become. And for what? To ensure that someone would always love me? Why would I be so desperate for someone to love me?
Why does no one love me?
The question echoes through my brain, scattering all other thoughts and sensations from my body.
It overwhelms me. For years, I thought I could only be loved for what I could offer others, but maybe that’s not so true anymore.
Maybe, just maybe, there’s something about me that doesn’t repulse everyone, that might just attract someone.
Someone like BandAid42, like this person who’s been talking with me for months.
Because I’ve never lied to them.
Or hidden from them.
A door clicks closed. Shoes shuffle against the floor, but I don’t see anyone in the room with me. The air in the basement changes, however, and I know I’m not alone anymore. Not that I ever really was.
“You’re back,” I whisper, my voice so quiet that I’m not even sure if they hear me.
My master comes closer, their boots shining in the dim light first before the rest of their body is revealed.
Raking my gaze upward, I memorize absolutely everything I can, from the way they stand, putting more pressure on one leg than the other, to their narrow hips, to the lines of their body, and each zippered pocket on the leather jacket they wear that isn’t too snug against their body, to the wisp of curly dark hair just at the edge of their mask that I can barely make out in the darkness, but I swear it’s there.
I point my toes again, stretching my calves and thighs as much as I can.
I don’t get the sense we’re done, not with the way they’re staring at me.
But this silence isn’t loud or overwhelming.
In fact, it’s so comforting that I’m fairly certain I can live in this moment for hours.
Just listening to their breaths, my heartbeat, and the quiet of this room that brings me so much comfort.
“Do you think I’m done with you?” they ask, their voice a jolt of reality bursting through the serenity I’ve found.
I raise my chin, staring directly into those stunning caramel-brown eyes. “No.”
“Good. Your cunt is still too pretty for my tastes.”