I can't recall the moment I first met him, but every day I've been locked in this room is a day I remember clearly. It's the only thing I remember clearly. Even my family, my friends, are fading from my memory now, their faces a mere blur in my mind's eye. It's as if he's torturing me in a new way, getting rid of my old memories to make way for the new ones.
This room is purple. I don't like purple. He probably knew that when he brought me here, so long ago. Was it a year ago? Two? Twelve? Time seems to stop here. I'm not allowed a calendar or television or even a clock. Even the window in this place is small and dirty. Funny, considering the rest of the room is well-furnished, down to the Queen-sized, silk-sheeted bed I sleep on.
A collar, laughably beautiful, set with fake violet jewels and made of pure silver, adorns my neck. A chain secures me to a bolt in the ceiling. I'm forever trapped here, his slave for as long as he wants to keep me. I dread the day when I become useless.
Every night, without fail, he comes to my room to use my body. I've been abused so much that I barely register the pain anymore. At first it was unbearable, and left me praying for death whenever he approached me. Now, not to say he's gotten any kinder, but it's not bad anymore. My body has conditioned to him being inside me.
If I were ever rescued, which I've given up on by now, I think I would have trouble adjusting to that the most. Though it was, for the record, forced, having sex every day is something not easily given up. I learned this the hard way when he left me alone for almost a week, shivering and sweating and generally miserable like a junkie who lost their junk. No, it's not possible now to leave.
I can hear him coming up the stairs now. I'm nervous, knowing that if he doesn't find me pleasing he will hurt me far more than sexually. I spread myself out on the bed in the way he taught me, forcing my eyes to be of the bedroom persuasion. My hearts pounds, so fast and strong that I can feel it throughout my entire body. The door opens and he's here.
He wears a suit, as usual, and a smirk. He seems especially pleased at the position I have chosen to greet him in. A small smile makes its way onto my face. He likes it when I smile. Says it makes me look beautiful.
He wastes no time tonight, shedding layers as he makes his way to the massive bed. Pleated pants are all he wears, and socks, as he climbs over me. His eyes are dark and hard, staring at me like a wolf would look at its prey. Predatory
it makes me shiver. That look is one he's given me every night I've been here. What keeps him so interested? I have to wonder why I haven't been replaced yet.
His fingers work at the satin belt of my deep plum robe, the only article I'm allowed to wear. It comes loose easily, and he pushes back the fabric so that my bare chest is exposed. I wish he would stop staring and just get on with it already. Waiting is the worst part.
His lips press along my jaw, forehead, neck, coming to rest on my lips. In the beginning, I fought him. I bit him or kicked, trying to escape, but I eventually accepted my fate. I kiss back to keep him happy, so I can continue to be his. I can't leave now, and I can't bear what my fate would be if he became frustrated or bored. Every move I make to please him is a silent plea not to abandon me. I know he's a horrible man, but I don't want to be alone.
Rough, callused hands stroke my thighs just enough to make me squirm. I have often wondered what makes his hands so callused. Maybe he is a musician. I will not ask, though. I do not speak to him; sometimes I doubt I have the ability to anymore. I have not spoken in a long time, even to myself.
Fingers slide over sensitive skin. I clench my eyes shut at the sensation. This is not the first time I've been aroused by his simple touches such as this. Being in this environment, it is to be expected. Everything I fought for in the beginning has crumbled into an apathetic pile in the wake of this man that has broken me so thoroughly.
He is impatient today, and enters me swiftly. It does not hurt; he's taken me so many times that I am immune to the pain of penetration. I clutch his back the way he likes it, and moan when he moves. This moment is something I ashamedly crave. His touch, his heat, his mere presence is sometimes enough. All day I deny what I know to be true, but in this time where my guard is all but gone, I can admit it to myself.
I am in love with him.
Is it so strange? There have been reported cases of prisoners falling for their captors. Stinko
something Syndrome. I can't recall.
He is the only one I have seen in years, the one my eyes have become accustomed to. He is the only one my body has become accustomed to. He doesn't let me starve or die of thirst; I am given all I need to live. Maybe this was his intention from the beginning. Maybe I have lost a game I did not realize I was playing.
What is the difference between them? Where is the line that says these must be separate? Where a normal person would scream and cry, I simply clutch to him, wanting more and more and never wanting him to leave because I would die if he did.
Is it so strange?
Yes, I suppose it is.
The high crescendo of pleasure practically lifts me off the bed, my eyes seeing the back of my head. Infinity crashes in on itself as the only thing I'm aware of is him. His touch, his heat, his presence. He is my only lifeline and I need him or I will fall into the infinite abyss.
I love you!
Something I should never say, and will never say. I'll think it as loud as I want, though. In my mind, it is just me.
Exhausted, I lay back on the pillows, closing my eyes. I feel him close my robe and pull a blanket over me. He kisses my forehead tenderly before leaving. My heart aches as he goes. I wish, just once, he would sleep with me in this bed; or I in his. I know he will be back in the morning, to let me bathe, but until then I must endure a cold bed once more.
I want to ask him a question, but I cannot say it before he is gone.
Do you love me
enough to keep me?