it. I knew what he was doing to me, but it didn’t change how I felt, how I longed for him to touch me.
“Please, take me out of here,” I whispered, as he ran his fingers through my hair. “Please.”
I stood, and he kissed me. I moved my arms around his neck, but he gently took my wrists and moved them down by my sides. Then the kiss was over and he was leaving again. He turned away, and I felt the panic bubbling over.
I’d made no progress. I’d just been a diversion, but it wouldn’t affect anything. What if he never forgave me for trying to kill him? What if he never let me out of the cell?
“No . . . please don’t leave me. I’ll be your whore. I’ll be whatever you want, please.”
I heard him punch in the combination code and then the click of freedom I couldn’t have, and he opened the door. He turned and smiled at me, the smile of victory. Then he let the door shut softly behind him.
Several days passed, the bleeding stopped, and I was still in the cell marking off the days. He’d supplied me with clothing again and my bathing supplies, but I chose to remain naked. I wasn’t sure if this was considered disobedience, but I was counting on his self-control slipping, that at some point he wouldn’t be able to stand not taking what was bare to his gaze.
But if it fazed him, he composed himself before entering my cell. He brought my food and bath stuff, looking at me, but nothing more.
On the seventh day I expected it to be over. I’d done my time, surely he would touch me again. I would let him, and then I would be rewarded and get to go back to the good cell. The room where I was favored. But day seven came and went without him making any move toward me.
I hadn’t built up the nerve to talk to him again since that one day. I was too afraid to change the routine. I wasn’t sure exactly what sins had mounted against me and if speaking was one of them.
I needed touch, comfort, something. I was losing my tenuous grip on sanity, on reality. Everything felt fuzzy, and sometimes I wasn’t sure if I was awake or asleep. I prayed it was a nightmare, and I’d wake up back in the good cell again. I’d stopped dreaming of escape because every part of me knew it wasn’t possible. My subconscious mind chose to spare me the torment of dangling carrots I couldn’t eat.
Instead I dreamed of the good cell, something I had some hope still of achieving. As the days slipped onward, I began to doubt I would ever get to go back there. Maybe what I’d done was so bad he could never forgive it.
I’d hoped being in the cell naked would entice him to come to me, that he wouldn’t be able to resist taking what he considered his. But nudity alone wasn’t cutting it. In an act of sheer desperation, I laid on my back in the middle of the room so every camera saw me. I spread my legs and touched myself. I didn’t know if the cameras had sound attached, and I wasn’t sure if I was moaning for his benefit or because I couldn’t help it.
It had been more than a week since I’d had an orgasm. In the short time I’d been in the good cell, he’d brought me to release so many times it made my head spin with it. Now as I stroked myself, I realized how much I missed the pleasure he gave me.
I was in the middle of possibly my third orgasm when the door came crashing open. Everything inside me said to stop. Run. I had no idea where I would run to, but instincts usually operate on the run principle.
Instead, I boldly met his eyes, my fingers slipping inside my pussy, daring him to respond in any way. I didn’t care how. He could fuck me or beat me. Any touch, any response from him would be welcome. But he stood there, his black eyes penetrating me, refusing to give me even anger in a physical manifestation.
He slammed the door behind him, and I stopped and moved to the corner. My heart was beating practically out of my chest, as slow dread started to creep over me. I’d wanted a reaction but now I was terrified
“Please, take me out of here,” I whispered, as he ran his fingers through my hair. “Please.”
I stood, and he kissed me. I moved my arms around his neck, but he gently took my wrists and moved them down by my sides. Then the kiss was over and he was leaving again. He turned away, and I felt the panic bubbling over.
I’d made no progress. I’d just been a diversion, but it wouldn’t affect anything. What if he never forgave me for trying to kill him? What if he never let me out of the cell?
“No . . . please don’t leave me. I’ll be your whore. I’ll be whatever you want, please.”
I heard him punch in the combination code and then the click of freedom I couldn’t have, and he opened the door. He turned and smiled at me, the smile of victory. Then he let the door shut softly behind him.
Several days passed, the bleeding stopped, and I was still in the cell marking off the days. He’d supplied me with clothing again and my bathing supplies, but I chose to remain naked. I wasn’t sure if this was considered disobedience, but I was counting on his self-control slipping, that at some point he wouldn’t be able to stand not taking what was bare to his gaze.
But if it fazed him, he composed himself before entering my cell. He brought my food and bath stuff, looking at me, but nothing more.
On the seventh day I expected it to be over. I’d done my time, surely he would touch me again. I would let him, and then I would be rewarded and get to go back to the good cell. The room where I was favored. But day seven came and went without him making any move toward me.
I hadn’t built up the nerve to talk to him again since that one day. I was too afraid to change the routine. I wasn’t sure exactly what sins had mounted against me and if speaking was one of them.
I needed touch, comfort, something. I was losing my tenuous grip on sanity, on reality. Everything felt fuzzy, and sometimes I wasn’t sure if I was awake or asleep. I prayed it was a nightmare, and I’d wake up back in the good cell again. I’d stopped dreaming of escape because every part of me knew it wasn’t possible. My subconscious mind chose to spare me the torment of dangling carrots I couldn’t eat.
Instead I dreamed of the good cell, something I had some hope still of achieving. As the days slipped onward, I began to doubt I would ever get to go back there. Maybe what I’d done was so bad he could never forgive it.
I’d hoped being in the cell naked would entice him to come to me, that he wouldn’t be able to resist taking what he considered his. But nudity alone wasn’t cutting it. In an act of sheer desperation, I laid on my back in the middle of the room so every camera saw me. I spread my legs and touched myself. I didn’t know if the cameras had sound attached, and I wasn’t sure if I was moaning for his benefit or because I couldn’t help it.
It had been more than a week since I’d had an orgasm. In the short time I’d been in the good cell, he’d brought me to release so many times it made my head spin with it. Now as I stroked myself, I realized how much I missed the pleasure he gave me.
I was in the middle of possibly my third orgasm when the door came crashing open. Everything inside me said to stop. Run. I had no idea where I would run to, but instincts usually operate on the run principle.
Instead, I boldly met his eyes, my fingers slipping inside my pussy, daring him to respond in any way. I didn’t care how. He could fuck me or beat me. Any touch, any response from him would be welcome. But he stood there, his black eyes penetrating me, refusing to give me even anger in a physical manifestation.
He slammed the door behind him, and I stopped and moved to the corner. My heart was beating practically out of my chest, as slow dread started to creep over me. I’d wanted a reaction but now I was terrified
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