The only word he wanted. What would it mean to say it? What would he do if she did?
“You are going to suffer until you say it. I want you to understand that.” His hand grabbed her jaw, and then his fingers left her cunt completely only to be forced into her mouth. Stretching her lips wide with the tang of her own taste — when had she grown wet?
He released her, and the last thing she saw was a blur of lights in the ceiling and his empty expression as he pushed the drawer shut and darkness overwhelmed her. Sore and whimpering she screamed for him to come back, but she didn’t use the word.
There really was a magic word, but would using it be a blessing or a curse?
Drawer open.
The freezing spray of water hit her skin and she gasped, too stunned to scream, but then she remembered her thirst. Desperate for the water she kept her mouth obscenely open, swallowed as often as she could, fighting the urge to shiver and clench her teeth.
Then came the baton. Loud, electric zaps that had her convulsing on the metal tray in short bursts. Pain thundered through exhausted nerves, but all she wanted was the water back.
Still thirsty.
She hadn’t been able to scream, or beg, in so long. Throat too dry, too raw from screaming in the damn drawer.
“Say it.” His words buzzed in her ears, humming like the lingering vibration of the shocks. Wincing, she tried to look at him, to pull his image into focus, but he was backlit by bright lights and he was nothing more than a shadow. A pit of darkness.
“Say it or you go back in, slave.”
Another zap, another groan, but all she wanted to ask for was the water. Even cold and biting, she didn’t care. Just… “Water?” she croaked.
“Wrong answer.”
The drawer slammed shut, rocking her body against the cuffs, and she flinched, tried to collect her thoughts into something not chaotic — but nothing worked.
Thirsty. I’m so thirsty.
Beth’s world slid again. Hours, days in darkness, she didn’t know how much time had passed. He hadn’t fed her, twice he had sprayed her with water and she had tried to swallow as much as she could, even as it stung her eyes and nose. Another he had used a short, leather thing on her flesh, striking and making her scream weakly as he hurt her. Another had been confusing, she had been sure she had seen two people, and then he had given her a shot — or it had felt like a shot — she couldn’t remember.
Everything was fractured.
Something clicked and then he lifted her head, one fist buried in her hair, and the other pressed a glass to her lips. Water. It was the best thing she’d ever tasted, and she swallowed, and swallowed, feeling it wash into her empty stomach.
She wanted to thank him, wanted to be grateful, but then he took it away, and there was another loud clank, and she slid in a new direction. Towards him, his fist in her hair pulling her, but she still couldn’t lift her arms and legs.
Blurry eyes opening she saw the glass of water atop the cabinet where her drawer was, and then he released her head and it dropped. Too weak to fight him, too weak to lift it, too weak to turn away when he unbuttoned his pants and slid the zipper down.
His cock from this angle looked larger, and when he tapped her cheek and said, “Open,” she obeyed without thinking. Fingers slipped into her mouth first, and she sucked, desperate for water, to make him happy, but he didn’t say anything else as he slid them free and replaced them with his cock. Her jaw stretched, lips folding over teeth as he pushed in slowly, a heady groan from above.
Hitting the back of her throat meant little at this angle, but he paused enough to give her one short breath before he thrust forward, into the channel that cut off her air and made her choke. Sliding back, she coughed, sputtered, and then he forced his cock deep again, holding still with her nose against his balls.
Property.
A set of holes.
It was all true, that’s what she felt like in this moment. Bound, unable to fight back, unable to struggle, no energy to be defiant and brave. He started to move, slowly at first, almost all the way out, letting her breathe, before plunging deep once more.
Catching on to the rhythm, she measured her breaths, and as his pace increased she had less and less air, until finally he was holding himself in her throat for longer and longer as she swallowed around his cock. Struggling weakly, twisting against the cuffs as she silently begged to breathe. He was fucking her throat, using her brutally, and the ache was getting worse the longer he continued.
Stop?
Such a useless word. It didn’t do anything. Why had she ever even learned it? If someone wanted to ignore it, they did. Whether it was running a stop sign, or whipping someone, or fucking their throat — what did stop mean if it meant nothing?
Her mind was growing hazier, the fog thicker, and she felt numb as he worked in and out of her mouth, barely a snippet of air allowed on some of the harder thrusts that required him to pull back a little further. Throat on fire, tears burning her eyes, she felt his hand wrap around her throat and squeeze.
Is this it? Is this when he kills me?