Tricked

She still had nightmares about her confinement after she’d had the audacity to strike her Master. She still wasn’t sure how long she’d been down there. A day? Two? As the hours trickled by in the darkness, she’d descended into a kind of strange fever dream, not always sure if she was awake or asleep. In the worst of her nightmares, rats and cockroaches filled the tiny closet. They crawled down the walls and up through holes in the floor, swarming over every inch of her body.

Caught in the dream, she would flail wildly, trying to bat them away. As they continued to fill the space, she tried desperately to crush the roaches and frighten the menacing rats with her cries.

But it was no use. They would keep coming—armies of them. As a rat sank its sharp yellow teeth into her breast, her thigh or her throat, she would howl in pain and terror. Then the roaches would swarm into her open mouth, choking her as they skittered down her throat. She would wake suddenly, jerked back to consciousness by her own cries, drenched in sweat and shaking with terror.

When he’d finally come for her, she’d been so grateful. He’d been tender with her, carrying her upstairs in his strong arms. He even let her sit at the table and eat and drink her fill. Then he’d given her a lovely hot bath, letting her soak as long as she’d wanted.

Yes, she’d learned her lesson. She would do anything to stay out of that closet. It was best always to obey, no matter the pain or indignity.

Yet, there was still a small voice in her head that refused to be completely silenced. It kept nagging her that she needed to keep her eyes and ears open—she needed to find a way out before things went too far. But it was exhausting to always be on her guard. It was so much easier just to let go and give in. After all, what choice did she have?

And really, ever since her time spent in the punishment closet, he’d been so much nicer. When she behaved well, she was rewarded. Yes, he still kept her in chains and controlled her every move. He still regularly whipped, spanked and raped her. But she was becoming much better at “leaving the premises” when it became too hard to take.

Breathing helped. When the pain threatened to overwhelm her, she would breathe in deeply, hold it for several seconds, and then breathe out slowly, letting the pain go along with the air. Breathe in… One, two, three, four, five… Let it go… Breathe in… … One, two, three, four, five… Let it go…

It didn’t always work, but when she was successful, it was easier to bear. Yes, she would still feel the pain, but she was somehow able to process it differently. The room would fade away. She would leave her body and float away to a happier time.

She would go white water rafting with Harry, or kayaking with her girlfriends back home. She walked through her favorite museums, stopping in front of the art and letting it draw her into its world. Sometimes she would go fishing with her dad or bake a batch of cookies with her mom.

Happily, Sir was feeding her regularly now. Her stomach was no longer a hard knot of empty pain and her hip bones didn’t ache when she lay on her side. Last night, he had even let her lick what was left in his bowl of ice cream. She could still almost taste the creamy sweetness on her tongue.

Again the small voice niggled at the back of her brain. Impatiently, she shrugged it away. Yes—she understood she still needed to keep her eyes and ears open for any possibility of escape. She hadn’t forgotten about the gun or the keys that were always around his neck. If she ever got the chance, she would certainly seize it.

But in the meantime, it was best to please and obey her Master.

“Hey, there,” he said now, grinning down at her. He was bouncing up and down like a little kid, radiating nervous excitement.

She smiled back, relieved to see he was in a good mood. Life was much easier when he was happy. “Good evening, Sir,” she said, though, judging by the dark sky outside, not to mention her full bladder, it was probably quite a bit later than evening.

“Dark Club was awesome,” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “I reconnected with this couple I met in Berlin. Greta—that’s the sub—she’s a total pain slut. They’re heavily into sadomasochism.”

Damon cupped Callie’s breasts, squeezing them. Her nipples were still tender from the clamps he’d used earlier in the day. She winced, but of course made no protest.

“They were doing a blood play scene,” he continued, still kneading her breasts. “It was super intense. The dude made a million tiny cuts all over her body with a real scalpel. Blood was dripping down her tits and thighs. It was so fucking hot.”