u/Hour_Cry_7471

Chapter One

The soapy water circles my kitchen drain as I stare down at it, my eyes fixed on its circular motion while my brain goes completely blank. A moment of pure zoned out bliss passes before something snaps me out of it. Something... peculiar. I can't quite put my finger on it. A sensation spreads across the back of my neck like pin pricks and fire, my body in sudden awareness of the fact that I am being watched. My mind struggles to catch up to what my bones already know to be true. I dart my eyes around the empty room, half expecting to make eye contact with some beast in the shadows that the furniture casts. I am tempted to breathe a sigh of relief when that isn't the case, but I don't because the feeling doesn't abate.

I stand in front of my half open blinds that face the field next door. The soft glow of my kitchen light emanates only slightly past the perimeter of the house. I squint as I try to make sense of the darkness beyond it. I don't know why, but I'm holding as still as my breath, heart racing. What feels like an eternity passes before I start feeling like maybe I'm being paranoid. Still the sensation of eyes on me doesn't go away until I shut the blinds. A part of me is certain that I saw a blur of motion out of the corner of my eye as I did. A sane person could probably convince themselves that it was the movement of wind in the trees along the fields edge that caught my attention. My bones seem to know better.

I groan, knowing I'm only feeling this way because I'm home alone tonight. My love never has overnights away from home. I would be suspicious if I didn’t trust him completely. A yawn breaks my concentration. I stretch and when I do, I can feel the silky fabric of my pyjama set glide across my hardened nipples. I shiver a bit, almost instinctively, as I shut off the kitchen lights and climb the ten steps to my bedroom. I crank the window open as wide as it will go before stripping from my clothes, leaving them in a messy pile on the floor. I crawl into bed, the potential mystery voyeur a long-forgotten memory by the time sleep claims me.

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I am awakened suddenly by something cold and sharp pressing into my throat. When my eyes snap open and meet yours, I scream as loud as I can for all of one second before a gloved hand slaps over my mouth with so much force it rattles my teeth. Your eyes taunt me as they shine through the balaclava you have covering your face.

"Shut the fuck up." You spit at me so sharply it threatens to cut me deeper than any knife.

I recognize your voice, your eyes, your smell, your firm touch. My breath hitches in my chest as the recognition works its way through my body.

"Good girls suffer." You hiss while straddling my naked body.

Suddenly I am aware of the blanket that has been pulled off my bed and of all my exposed flesh.

"Scream and I cut you." You say it so matter of fact that I would be a fool to not believe you.

I can only manage a slight nod between the pressure of your hand and your blade, but this seems to placate you. You take your hand away from my face but push the knife in harder. You push the blade into my skin until it is on the cusp of cutting into my flesh, daring me to struggle against its steel. When I don't, you take matters into your own hands. You explore my body with the roughness of someone who hates me. Digging your fingertips into my soft bits until they redden, almost as if to beg for your mercy. Mercy that my bones know won't come.

I whimper when you take my nipple between your teeth, and you punish me for it. The slap of your leather clad hand across my face is my reward for my transgression. Your hand slides into my tangled hair and fists it until my neck is uncomfortably flexed. You take the opportunity to drag the now warm blade across my tensed throat. There is a certain and ever so slight sharp ripping sensation that accompanies it, I don't need to see it to know that the stroke drew tiny droplets of blood in a pretty little line. I almost scream until I think better of it. Fear builds with every inch that you explore.

You bring the hand that was pulling my hair around to the front of my throat and squeeze, hard. I can feel the small line of blood that I wear like a necklace smearing onto your glove. The knife descends lower and lower on my body as the pressure builds on my neck until I am gasping for air. You bring me to the brink of passing out before you allow me to breathe, greedily sucking backing oxygen in loud rasps. When the blade reaches my thigh, you waste no time. You hold the tip to my skin, loosening your grip on my throat.

"Eyes on me Princess." You command before I realize that your loosened grip is no kindness.

In this moment I know it's the best chance I will get to run, to scream, to grab my phone and lock myself in my bathroom, but I don't do any of those things. I am both afraid and enraptured by you. Instead, I just watch you like you demand of me. You apply pressure onto the tip of the knife until the tension indents my skin. It builds so slow that I want to scream, the anticipation of suffering always worse than the actual act. Or so I thought, until you swiftly break the seal of my skin and carve your initials into it. You slide the blade against my flesh to finish a sloppily carved S. I can't help but cry out in pain as you butcher my thigh, I thrash against you, but it only makes the bleeding worse.

"The better you are, the prettier your branding will be." You say without stopping or even flinching.

For some reason this calms me slightly and you finish the M relatively cleanly.

"Good girl." You coo at me.

I can tell by the crinkle at the corners of your eyes that you're smirking under your mask. The sight fascinates me for a moment before your hand slapping me in the face brings me back to my harsh reality. You took your glove off while I was distracted, the skin-on-skin contact stings worse than its worn fabric. You take my face in your hand, propping up my head from under my chin and squeezing my cheeks until they hurt. You never break eye contact, and something tells me that if I do, I'll be punished. I'm afraid to even blink as you stare into me. I can see in the periphery of my vision that your free hand has dropped the knife beside me in bed. I think I see you rummaging in your pocket, but I do not dare to pull my gaze away from yours.

In one swift movement you force something into my mouth and slap your gloved hand tightly over my lips. The hand you used to squeeze my cheeks shoots to the back of my head. I try to pry you away as I tongue the bitter pills you practically shoved down my throat. You eye me with amusement, your grip ironclad despite my clawing. I can feel your skin collecting under my fingernails, but it doesn't even phase you.

"Darling, I can do this all day. Swallow." The tone of your voice conveying an arrogant authority.

I do as I'm told, partly because I can't stand the taste of the chemicals dissolving in my mouth anymore and partly because I can hardly breathe through just my nose ever since my septum deviated. When you finally remove your hand from my mouth, I am in a full-blown panic for air. You stick your fingers in my mouth and rummage around, presumably to make sure that I'm not hiding any stray pills.

"Good girl." You sing again, when your search comes up empty.

"We have thirty minutes before that kicks in." You say before lightly slapping my cheek twice.

I have no idea what I’ve just taken, the beginnings of a panic attack crush my chest as I struggle to breathe. This does not soften you, if anything, it makes you more aggressive. I notice for the first time the unfamiliar backpack that sits in the corner of the room. You walk over to it and remove a black zip tie from it before sauntering back over to me. I could run, but your body is between me and the door, and I fawn instead. I could scream, if only I could bring myself to. Instead, I scramble up the mattress as you draw near. You grab my ankles and pull me back towards you, clearly unamused. As punishment, you force me to watch as you wrap a zip tie around my wrists, tightening the hard plastic so much that you give it teeth, only satisfied when it is biting into my flesh.
I feel the whine leave my lips before I hear it, immediately understanding that I’ve made a mistake. You practically growl when you hear it, pulling me to my feet harshly by my bound wrists. You take the opportunity to spin me around, using one hand to forcefully bend me at the waist until my face is pushed into the mattress. You grip my naked hips so hard that I’m sure they will bruise under your hands. You move one hand to the back of my head, pushing my face into the mattress, and explore the pulsing between my thighs with the other. I am ashamed when your fingers brush me and I can feel how silky wet I am. You are thrilled.

“Such a good little wet slut.” You lean down as close to my ear as you can when you say it.
The sensation of your hot breath snakes its way down my neck as you practically whisper. I feel a flash of embarrassment and shame streak across my face and settle in my cheeks, giving them a pinkish hue. You straighten and suddenly I can feel your fingers driving into me, instruments of torture, not pleasure. This goes on for what feels like forever, long enough for me to disassociate from my body and the pain you are causing me.
When you finally allow me to stand upright, I can hardly stop myself from swaying, whatever you gave me finally kicking in to full swing. My lips feel like molasses, and I seem to trip over my own toes as you nudge me towards the bedroom door. You walk behind me, never touching me and yet I still know there is no escape. You stop to scoop up your backpack and swing it over your shoulder before directing me the rest of the way through the house to the front door.
“Stop.” You direct sternly right as we walk up to the door.
A moment of silence, followed by the sounds of rummaging, and then finally, the cool barrel of what feels like a gun pressed between my shoulder blades.
“If you try anything, I’ll pull the trigger.” You threaten me with sharpened syllables.
Before I respond you are opening the door and pushing me out into the cool night. The wind caresses large swaths of my skin before I remember that I am as naked as the day I was born. I almost hesitate, afraid that one of the neighbors in this suburban hellscape would see far more of my flesh than I would like. The thought only lasts a split second before I’m praying for someone to look out their bedroom window and into the street. You lock the front door with a key before guiding me to your street parked white car right as whatever sedative you gave me starts weighing me down. You open the door and practically push me in, forcing me to lie on the back seat. As my head hits upholstery, my eyes suddenly start feeling heavy, so fucking heavy.
“Stay here.” You request of me knowing full well that I cannot get up.
I manage to prop my head and watch you saunter to the front of the house so casually it should be a crime. There’s a ladder propped up against the garage that you used to climb into the window. You gracefully unlock the rungs and lower it. The last thing I remember is the thud of the ladder being thrown into the grass beside the house, the drivers door opening and slamming shut, and you, adjusting the review mirror so that my eyes reflect into yours. You don’t look away as you take off your balaclava.
“I knew you didn’t forget.” I say, motivated half by fear and half by arousal.
My voice is raspy, and I realize they are the first words I’ve spoken all night. If you give me some kind of response, I don’t get to hear it before the blackness that lingers on the periphery of my vision takes over and I am plunged into a never-ending night.

My biggest turn on is the idea of strangers out there, pleasuring themselves to my pictures 😇 thinking about sending out physical Polaroids in the mail? What do you guys think? Haha would you want one sent to you?

Chapter One

The soapy water circles my kitchen drain as I stare down at it, my eyes fixed on its circular motion while my brain goes completely blank. A moment of pure zoned out bliss passes before something snaps me out of it. Something... peculiar. I can't quite put my finger on it. A sensation spreads across the back of my neck like pin pricks and fire, my body in sudden awareness of the fact that I am being watched. My mind struggles to catch up to what my bones already know to be true. I dart my eyes around the empty room, half expecting to make eye contact with some beast in the shadows that the furniture casts. I am tempted to breathe a sigh of relief when that isn't the case, but I don't because the feeling doesn't abate.

I stand in front of my half open blinds that face the field next door. The soft glow of my kitchen light emanates only slightly past the perimeter of the house. I squint as I try to make sense of the darkness beyond it. I don't know why, but I'm holding as still as my breath, heart racing. What feels like an eternity passes before I start feeling like maybe I'm being paranoid. Still the sensation of eyes on me doesn't go away until I shut the blinds. A part of me is certain that I saw a blur of motion out of the corner of my eye as I did. A sane person could probably convince themselves that it was the movement of wind in the trees along the fields edge that caught my attention. My bones seem to know better.

I groan, knowing I'm only feeling this way because I'm home alone tonight. My love never has overnights away from home. I would be suspicious if I didn’t trust him completely. A yawn breaks my concentration. I stretch and when I do, I can feel the silky fabric of my pyjama set glide across my hardened nipples. I shiver a bit, almost instinctively, as I shut off the kitchen lights and climb the ten steps to my bedroom. I crank the window open as wide as it will go before stripping from my clothes, leaving them in a messy pile on the floor. I crawl into bed, the potential mystery voyeur a long-forgotten memory by the time sleep claims me.

-------------------------------------------

I am awakened suddenly by something cold and sharp pressing into my throat. When my eyes snap open and meet yours, I scream as loud as I can for all of one second before a gloved hand slaps over my mouth with so much force it rattles my teeth. Your eyes taunt me as they shine through the balaclava you have covering your face.

"Shut the fuck up." You spit at me so sharply it threatens to cut me deeper than any knife.

I recognize your voice, your eyes, your smell, your firm touch. My breath hitches in my chest as the recognition works its way through my body.

"Good girls suffer." You hiss while straddling my naked body.

Suddenly I am aware of the blanket that has been pulled off my bed and of all my exposed flesh.

"Scream and I cut you." You say it so matter of fact that I would be a fool to not believe you.

I can only manage a slight nod between the pressure of your hand and your blade, but this seems to placate you. You take your hand away from my face but push the knife in harder. You push the blade into my skin until it is on the cusp of cutting into my flesh, daring me to struggle against its steel. When I don't, you take matters into your own hands. You explore my body with the roughness of someone who hates me. Digging your fingertips into my soft bits until they redden, almost as if to beg for your mercy. Mercy that my bones know won't come.

I whimper when you take my nipple between your teeth, and you punish me for it. The slap of your leather clad hand across my face is my reward for my transgression. Your hand slides into my tangled hair and fists it until my neck is uncomfortably flexed. You take the opportunity to drag the now warm blade across my tensed throat. There is a certain and ever so slight sharp ripping sensation that accompanies it, I don't need to see it to know that the stroke drew tiny droplets of blood in a pretty little line. I almost scream until I think better of it. Fear builds with every inch that you explore.

You bring the hand that was pulling my hair around to the front of my throat and squeeze, hard. I can feel the small line of blood that I wear like a necklace smearing onto your glove. The knife descends lower and lower on my body as the pressure builds on my neck until I am gasping for air. You bring me to the brink of passing out before you allow me to breathe, greedily sucking backing oxygen in loud rasps. When the blade reaches my thigh, you waste no time. You hold the tip to my skin, loosening your grip on my throat.

"Eyes on me Princess." You command before I realize that your loosened grip is no kindness.

In this moment I know it's the best chance I will get to run, to scream, to grab my phone and lock myself in my bathroom, but I don't do any of those things. I am both afraid and enraptured by you. Instead, I just watch you like you demand of me. You apply pressure onto the tip of the knife until the tension indents my skin. It builds so slow that I want to scream, the anticipation of suffering always worse than the actual act. Or so I thought, until you swiftly break the seal of my skin and carve your initials into it. You slide the blade against my flesh to finish a sloppily carved S. I can't help but cry out in pain as you butcher my thigh, I thrash against you, but it only makes the bleeding worse.

"The better you are, the prettier your branding will be." You say without stopping or even flinching.

For some reason this calms me slightly and you finish the M relatively cleanly.

"Good girl." You coo at me.

I can tell by the crinkle at the corners of your eyes that you're smirking under your mask. The sight fascinates me for a moment before your hand slapping me in the face brings me back to my harsh reality. You took your glove off while I was distracted, the skin-on-skin contact stings worse than its worn fabric. You take my face in your hand, propping up my head from under my chin and squeezing my cheeks until they hurt. You never break eye contact, and something tells me that if I do, I'll be punished. I'm afraid to even blink as you stare into me. I can see in the periphery of my vision that your free hand has dropped the knife beside me in bed. I think I see you rummaging in your pocket, but I do not dare to pull my gaze away from yours.

In one swift movement you force something into my mouth and slap your gloved hand tightly over my lips. The hand you used to squeeze my cheeks shoots to the back of my head. I try to pry you away as I tongue the bitter pills you practically shoved down my throat. You eye me with amusement, your grip ironclad despite my clawing. I can feel your skin collecting under my fingernails, but it doesn't even phase you.

"Darling, I can do this all day. Swallow." The tone of your voice conveying an arrogant authority.

I do as I'm told, partly because I can't stand the taste of the chemicals dissolving in my mouth anymore and partly because I can hardly breathe through just my nose ever since my septum deviated. When you finally remove your hand from my mouth, I am in a full-blown panic for air. You stick your fingers in my mouth and rummage around, presumably to make sure that I'm not hiding any stray pills.

"Good girl." You sing again, when your search comes up empty.

"We have thirty minutes before that kicks in." You say before lightly slapping my cheek twice.

I have no idea what I’ve just taken, the beginnings of a panic attack crush my chest as I struggle to breathe. This does not soften you, if anything, it makes you more aggressive. I notice for the first time the unfamiliar backpack that sits in the corner of the room. You walk over to it and remove a black zip tie from it before sauntering back over to me. I could run, but your body is between me and the door, and I fawn instead. I could scream, if only I could bring myself to. Instead, I scramble up the mattress as you draw near. You grab my ankles and pull me back towards you, clearly unamused. As punishment, you force me to watch as you wrap a zip tie around my wrists, tightening the hard plastic so much that you give it teeth, only satisfied when it is biting into my flesh.
I feel the whine leave my lips before I hear it, immediately understanding that I’ve made a mistake. You practically growl when you hear it, pulling me to my feet harshly by my bound wrists. You take the opportunity to spin me around, using one hand to forcefully bend me at the waist until my face is pushed into the mattress. You grip my naked hips so hard that I’m sure they will bruise under your hands. You move one hand to the back of my head, pushing my face into the mattress, and explore the pulsing between my thighs with the other. I am ashamed when your fingers brush me and I can feel how silky wet I am. You are thrilled.

“Such a good little wet slut.” You lean down as close to my ear as you can when you say it.
The sensation of your hot breath snakes its way down my neck as you practically whisper. I feel a flash of embarrassment and shame streak across my face and settle in my cheeks, giving them a pinkish hue. You straighten and suddenly I can feel your fingers driving into me, instruments of torture, not pleasure. This goes on for what feels like forever, long enough for me to disassociate from my body and the pain you are causing me.
When you finally allow me to stand upright, I can hardly stop myself from swaying, whatever you gave me finally kicking in to full swing. My lips feel like molasses, and I seem to trip over my own toes as you nudge me towards the bedroom door. You walk behind me, never touching me and yet I still know there is no escape. You stop to scoop up your backpack and swing it over your shoulder before directing me the rest of the way through the house to the front door.
“Stop.” You direct sternly right as we walk up to the door.
A moment of silence, followed by the sounds of rummaging, and then finally, the cool barrel of what feels like a gun pressed between my shoulder blades.
“If you try anything, I’ll pull the trigger.” You threaten me with sharpened syllables.
Before I respond you are opening the door and pushing me out into the cool night. The wind caresses large swaths of my skin before I remember that I am as naked as the day I was born. I almost hesitate, afraid that one of the neighbors in this suburban hellscape would see far more of my flesh than I would like. The thought only lasts a split second before I’m praying for someone to look out their bedroom window and into the street. You lock the front door with a key before guiding me to your street parked white car right as whatever sedative you gave me starts weighing me down. You open the door and practically push me in, forcing me to lie on the back seat. As my head hits upholstery, my eyes suddenly start feeling heavy, so fucking heavy.
“Stay here.” You request of me knowing full well that I cannot get up.
I manage to prop my head and watch you saunter to the front of the house so casually it should be a crime. There’s a ladder propped up against the garage that you used to climb into the window. You gracefully unlock the rungs and lower it. The last thing I remember is the thud of the ladder being thrown into the grass beside the house, the drivers door opening and slamming shut, and you, adjusting the review mirror so that my eyes reflect into yours. You don’t look away as you take off your balaclava.
“I knew you didn’t forget.” I say, motivated half by fear and half by arousal.
My voice is raspy, and I realize they are the first words I’ve spoken all night. If you give me some kind of response, I don’t get to hear it before the blackness that lingers on the periphery of my vision takes over and I am plunged into a never-ending night.

Chapter 2
When I come to, the pinkish hue of my closed eyelids irritates me. I leave them closed and adjust to the light that is streaming into the car. I can hear the hum of an engine over the soft classical music that plays on the radio. I can feel the characteristic bumps of a dirt road beneath tires. It would almost be pleasant if it weren’t for the pain radiating from my wrists where you bound them and the itchiness of the seat fabric against my bare skin. I notice that you placed a moving blanket overtop of me so as not to draw suspicion to the car with a bound naked woman in the back.
We hit a pothole, and it draws a groan from my lips as I squint my eyes open. The back of your head slowly comes into focus when you rip your eyes from the road and fix them to my reflection in the rearview mirror.
“Good morning, babe.” You say, the smirk apparent in your voice.
I try to speak but my mouth is so dry that my lips stick to my teeth. You flick your turn signal on to pull over, even though I know there is no one else on the road. I can feel the car dip to one side as we come to a stop on the shoulder. I’m still too groggy to have cohesive thought or anything other than a clumsy command of my limbs. What the fuck did you give me? You get out of the car and pull open the back drivers side door. I slowly push up off the bench into a seated position. Unhappy with my progress, you grab my zip tied wrists and pull me to my feet outside of the car. I stumble, my bare feet on uneven pebbly ground. You let me fall and I can feel a half a dozen tiny rocks dig under the skin of my knees.
I take in my surroundings, the quiet dirt road that stretches out as far as the eye can see in either direction, the forest that insulates us on all sides. Fuck. There is a small part of me that is sure I’m going to die while looking up at you from my knees. I quickly push the thought from my brain, knowing in my very soul that you aren’t done with me, that you will never be done with me. You drop a water bottle onto the ground in front of me, it kicks up a small plume of dust that coats its plastic.
“Drink, go pee, and don’t do anything fucking stupid. We have a long drive ahead.” You don’t even look at me when you say it.
Instead, your eyes are fixed on the Glock 19 in your hands. You pull back the slide and engage the slide lock, engrossed in inspecting the barrel through the ejection port. I notice the magazine is missing and realize that this might be my best shot at escaping while you are distracted. It is crazy the kind of thoughts that fear will inspire. My tongue feels like sandpaper in my mouth, and I realize I’ll never get far without quenching this thirst and emptying my child sized bladder first. My bound hands clamour for the water bottle that sits in the dirt in front of me. I notice the seal of the bottle has already been broken but I don’t care. I’m so thirsty I would drink mud. I gulp desperately until the bottle is empty, still not quite quenched. I push myself up from my dusty, bloodied knees, my heart pounding in my chest like it is trying to escape my body. It beats so quickly I could swear it is trying to take wingless flight.
“I’m just going pee.” I say as I stumble to the tree line, trying to gather courage with every step that creates distance between us.
You only grumble in response, eyes still fixed on your gun, now being wiped down by a fabric cloth. You still don’t look my way as I squat at the edge of the forest, trying to come up with some sort of plan. When I stand, I don’t even know what I’m doing except for commanding my legs to fucking run. I get twenty meters into the forest before I find the tenacity to turn around and look at you, half expecting you to be directly on my heels. Instead, you lean against the hood of your car watching me with a frown spreading across your lips. You cross your arms and just stand there, staring at me. For a moment I feel a glimmer of what can only be described as hope mixed with disappointment that you are letting me go, that perhaps I am not worth the trouble, before I realize…. You’re just giving me a head start.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, FUCK. The fear starts to creep in and strangle rational thought. I run as fast as my legs will carry me, weaving wildly between the trees as the underbrush cuts into my feet and shins. There is pure adrenaline pumping through my veins though, so if I am hurt, I don’t feel it. My zip tied wrists make balance difficult. I don’t have the use of my arms for counterweight as I streak through the forest buck naked. I don’t know what I am looking for, but I’ll know it when I see it. I keep praying to a God that I don’t believe in. Just please God, let me stumble across a cabin of some sort, or a river I can wade into to disappear my footprints. Give me a fucking cave I can hide in, I don’t care if I have to share it with a bear. I pick the bear. My mind has gone full blown primal instinct mode.
I don’t know how far I’ve gotten when I hear a shot ring out, but it drops me to my knees. Not because it hits me, but because it terrifies me. I can feel my breathing become difficult, the beginnings of a panic attack starting to bloom inside my chest. I suck back increasingly larger breaths, but they feel like they contain less and less oxygen. Surely you wouldn’t want to maim your wife I think to myself, trying to console the part of me that is terrified. When I look at my knees with the blood dripping down them and the black specs under my skin that hint at the rocky debris lodged there, I think differently. It’s too late by the time I hear your boots crashing into the forest, drawing nearer and nearer. I would stand up if only I could fucking breathe.
In this exact moment, my entire life flashes before my eyes and I prepare to die. I see a father who never loved me well enough, the woman who birthed me and then disappeared into his shadow. I see the sneering faces of my peers contorted in laughter as a child. I see the cock of the first man who ever raped me. These still images put on a slideshow in my mind until I am unsure why exactly I am so afraid to die. Death would be a luxury in comparison to the life I’ve led, and yet, as your footsteps near, all I can think is, please God don’t let me die.
Your hand clamps the back of my neck tightly as I cower on the forest's floor, my back turned to you and my head in my palms. You push me down into the dirt face first, the twigs and spiked bushes of the underbrush press into my skin. My bound wrists are trapped uncomfortably and in an unnatural position under my torso. With your hand forcefully pressing my face into the ground, I black out for a second as my panic attack reaches full swing. I feel the hot tears streaming down my cheeks and squeeze my eyes shut, the sound of your belt coming undone is the only thing I hear over the rustling of the wind through the trees and my own frenzied gasps. I feel you kick my legs apart and kneel between them before you plunge yourself deeply into me with no warning. Not that it matters, because as I soon realize, I am soaking wet. What the fuck is wrong with me? More tears stain my cheeks, but this time I cry of disgust.
Your strokes are fast and forceful, uncaring of my pleasure in the moment. Every thrust of your hips crushes me further into dust, until I don't know where I stop and the forests floor begins. I can feel my eyes fluttering closed and a heaviness taking over my body before I feel you come deep inside me. You let out what can only be described as a primal sound as you do. I can hardly move, sleepiness suddenly filling my veins like cement. I open my eyes briefly to look at you as stand up, now towering over me. You cock your head when you notice the state I'm in, a second passes before you are seemingly jolted by some kind of realization. You look at your watch.
"Fuck. Time's almost up." You say, it's the first hint of concern I’ve seen on your face.
I wonder what you mean before I remember the opened bottle of water that I chugged earlier, so thirsty that I thought nothing of the oily residue that coated my tongue afterwards. It dawns on me that you drugged me again. I wouldn't want to drag my unconscious body through woods this thick either. You quickly pull me to my feet, gripping me by my arm and steadily guiding me back to the gravel road from whence we came. The world spins around me as I stumble through the woods. I barely make it back to the car before I pass out again.

 
Chapter 3
I don’t know how long it has been since I was conscious last, but it feels like an eternity. My brain comes back online slowly, shaking away the cobwebs of a deep dreamless sleep. For a moment I think I will be back at home in my bed when I open my eyes. That hope is quickly dashed when my eyelids flutter open to take in my surroundings. A small, cold room with no furniture other than the bed I am currently strapped to by all four limbs. At least the thick leather cuffs are less painful than the previous zip tie.
I look down at the welts and purplish red bruising that wrap my wrists like lace bracelets, thankful for the kindness and comfort of their new captors. The cuffs are thick leather, equally as unbreakable as anything ever was. They are fastened to the legs of the bed with big chains that clink with the slightest movement. Four heavy locks adorn the cuffs on my hands and feet in what looks like a custom made set up. I am still naked, though my knees have scabbed over and the initials you carved into my thigh appear to have been cleaned and dressed. How long have I been out for?
I am tempted to panic before I soothe myself and force myself to commit every detail of this place to my memory, hoping that maybe I can outsmart this room. The four walls are so close to the king-sized bed that the door to enter the room barely has enough clearance to swing inward. Good, the door swings inward. Next my eyes draw to the three distinct deadbolt locks that adorn the door, I take note of the fact that they all lock from the outside. Beside the door and directly in my eyesight is an empty shelf. Much to my dismay there is no twenty-pound marble bust or makeshift lockpick to be found upon it.
There is a slight smell of must and a small window that looks like that of a basement near the top of the barely six-foot-tall wall, a camera with a constant red light fastened beside it. The room is dark, only the faint glow of what appears to be late evening or early morning filtering in. It’s barely enough to illuminate my surroundings. Before I have the chance to memorize anything else, I am interrupted by the sounds of a deadbolt unlocking.
Clunk.
Shit. It starts to become more difficult to control my emotions when a second sound punctuates the silence.
Clunk.
Fuck. My thoughts race in my mind. I forget everything that I just inspected in the room altogether by the time the third deadbolt begins to turn.
Clunk.
Fuck, shit, fuck! I can no longer deny the terror that grips me, I try to coil my body like a snake preparing to strike but the chains don’t leave me any slack. The door pushes open and you step through its threshold, a black shadow against the light that spills in from the much brighter room behind you. You don’t bother closing it and I blink quickly, trying to hasten the amount of time it takes my eyes to adjust. You laugh cruelly, as if you can sense the fear that sends my blood rushing between my thighs.
You step closer to the bed and trace your hand down my body, soft at first but not for long. You squeeze my thighs between your fingers and lean over to bite me on the neck, fucking hard. I scream and you kiss the noise as it leaves my lips. When my scream turns into a whisper you lean in.
“No use, Princess. You think I would go through all the trouble of making your dreams come true without sound proofing first?”
You are so close to me that the moisture of your breath wets my ear. I can’t help it when it makes me shudder, sending chills down my spine. You push yourself up from your position hovering over me abruptly. I think I can see the outline of an erection pressed up against your jeans and the flash of a smile tug at the corner of your lips. You leave the room for a moment and when you step back in, I notice the laptop that you have tucked under your arm. For some reason it elicits horror and anticipation in me. I have no idea what you are going to do next. You place the laptop on the shelf next to the door, screen still folded down.
I had been so focused on the computer that I failed to notice the 8-inch steel blade that glints in your hand. I buck wildly against my restraints, but I refuse to open my mouth and say a God damn word. I have tried not to this entire time, refusing to give you the satisfaction. There is a small part of me that wants to elicit a violent reaction from you. As if you can read my indignant thoughts, you scrape the blade down my skin.
“What do good girls do?” You ask as you stare intently at me.
Still, I refuse to answer you. I can’t tell if it amuses you or enrages you more. Your blade digs deeper into the skin of my stomach.
“Fucking answer me.” You growl and the knife sinks into me until a small pool of blood forms.
It is a superficial wound, hardly the depth you would use to check the fat on a pig, but it hurts like hell.
“Suffer!” I cry out through gritted teeth.
“Say. It. Again.” You seem to spit the words at me, leaving painful pauses between each one.
“Good girls suffer!” I scream out before you relieve the pressure of your knife.
It is as if some sort of flood gate has opened up inside of me and I start sobbing uncontrollably. Perhaps because of the slow and steady realization of my fate, finally sinking in. I can’t stop shaking and crying, shaking and crying. You take a step back from me and from the bed, a look of accomplishment spreads across your face. I know you think you broke me, and really, you just might have.
“Good girl.” You confirm.
I’m ashamed at how good hearing those words makes me feel, given the circumstances. I try to offer myself explanations for the contradictory feelings that flood me. It’s the adrenaline, it’s the pain, it’s the fucked up, primal, fight or flight chemicals in my brain. It’s anything other than me.
“It’s movie night.” You say casually as you flip open the laptop screen.
From my place in bed I can see a paused video on the screen. It’s of me. I recognize the angle immediately as belonging to the camera in the corner of the room. Your fingers hover over the space bar for just a moment before you hit it, causing the video to play. I hear the sound of the deadbolts unlocking come from the laptops speakers and my heart races. I am terrified for the woman in the movie. She lies there and does not stir even though there is a monster headed her way.
You watch me as I am forced to watch all of the fucked-up ways that you violate me play out on screen. I can’t look away even though I try. The tears stream silently down my face as I watch helplessly, slack jawed, the pulsing between my thighs growing in intensity with every exhilarating second that passes. After fifteen minutes, it’s almost as if you tire of watching me cry and writhe against my chains. You grab me by the neck, hard enough to knock the breath from my throat.
“You were fucking begging me for this, don’t ever forget that. You little ungrateful slut.”
Your words only make me cry harder, make the lines of reality blur. Did I really want... this? My eyes are so full of tears it is hard to even make out what is playing on the screen anymore, as the sounds of my own rape fill my ears. I begin to have a visceral reaction when I realize that the video still has hours of play time left.
“That’s just one of the videos we made together, Princess.” You say as if you can read my mind.
You leave me and the room. Locking me inside with a clunk, clunk, clunk. The video plays on loop for hours, all night long. I can hardly sleep, deeply afraid and ashamed of the neediness between my legs and at my core.

If you made it this far, tell me what you think of my story? 😇

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