Mentor (An Impossible Novella) (3 page)

I slumped in my seat, recognizing my defeat.  I forced my mind to shut down completely, to ignore the anger and grief and humiliation.  There would be time to try to out-think him later.  For now, he held my life in his hands, and I was too desperate for sustenance to deny him.
 

“Good girl,” he praised me again as I accepted him.  I shuddered.
 

Slowly, he pulled his finger through my lips, dragging it along my tongue.  It fought to keep him in, craving the moisture he offered.
 

Once he had fully extricated himself from my mouth, I heard the sloshing sound again.  Seconds later, a blessed pool of water was at my lips.  The cool liquid dripped over the side of his cupped palm onto my waiting tongue.  It slid through his fingers to drizzle onto my throat, my breasts, my stomach.  Every inch of my body was greedy for it, desperate to soak up as much as possible.
 

He repeated the process, not stopping until my tongue no longer felt sundried and shriveled.  He appreciated its return to velvety smoothness by stroking two fingers into my mouth, sliding them in and out.  I didn’t even realize that I followed the pumping motion, trying to keep him – no, the water that lingered on his skin – in my mouth.
 

His low rumble of approval seemed to vibrate through me, but despite my self-loathing, I couldn’t stop myself from whining in protest when he finally removed his hand completely.
 

“Don’t be greedy, pet,” he chided.  “You take what I give you.”
 

Before I could muster up the anger to snarl at him, something fleshy and wet pressed against my lips.  The sweet melon touched my tongue, and its delicious juice burst in my mouth when I bit into it.
 

“Good behavior is rewarded.”
 

“Fuck you, you sick bastard!”
  The words never managed to form on my tongue; it was too concerned with consuming as much of the honeydew as possible.
 

He was no longer gripping the base of my skull to hold me in place.  Instead, his hand caressed my neck.  His fingers played through my hair, massaging my scalp.  The simple comforting touch helped ease some of the tension that had gripped me during my hours of tight bondage.  I fought the urge to drop my head back, to welcome the contact.  I didn’t entirely succeed.
 

When my stomach no longer felt achingly empty, his fingers touched beneath my chin, silently closing my waiting mouth to let me know that he was finished feeding me.
 

Disgust rattled insistently at the edges of my consciousness, but I resolutely forced it back.  I couldn’t face the humiliation of what he had done to me.  My behavior was abhorrent, but I hadn’t had a choice.
 

Had I?
 

I should have died before accepting that treatment,
I berated myself.
 

But self-deprecation wouldn’t do me any good now.  What was done was done.
 

Put it behind you.  Move past it.  
 

I had learned to ignore the horrors of my past long ago.  I wouldn’t have survived otherwise.  That was all I could focus on for the time being: survival.  I couldn’t escape if I was dead.  I had lived through abuse before, and I could do it again.  I wouldn’t let this bastard beat me.
 

The cold edge of the knife against the crook of my arm was now a familiar sensation.
 

“Don’t move,” he warned.  Again, his soft tone was a perversion of caring.  The man holding a blade against my skin wasn’t concerned with my well-being.  He was concerned with maintaining his control over me.
 

The rope briefly bit into the abrasions around my wrists, and I hissed in pain just before my bonds fell away.  My tormentor had sliced through them as easily as he had cut away my clothes.
 

I had all but forgotten that I was naked.  When base imperatives like hunger and thirst weren’t met, the denial of social norms like covering one’s nudity seemed unimportant.  Now that my need for sustenance had been slaked, my discomfort at the sensation of his hands on my bare skin returned full-force.
 

But that was nothing compared to the humiliation he was about to force me to endure.
 

Once he had freed my ankles, his hands closed around my waist, pulling me upright.  My cramped muscles shrieked in protest, and my legs gave way beneath me.  I collapsed against him, and he caught me easily.  My hands strained to lash out at him, but my arms hung uselessly at my sides.
 

One arm braced around my waist, and his other hand stroked up and down my back.
 

“Shhh,” he soothed me.
 

A childlike sob ripped its way up my throat as an overwhelming surge of emotion tore through me: anguish, fear, fury, humiliation, and a sick sense of longing.  I craved
comfort, and his twisted parody of care tricked my shattered mind into accepting his touch.
 

The lingering desire to hurt him only filled me with that much more distress at the knowledge that there was nothing I could do against him.  I could feel the muscles of his chest and arms undulating around me as he continued to stroke me.  Even if I possessed the strength to fight him, my limbs were still screaming from their prolonged immobility.
 

I was powerless, and that was exactly how he wanted me to feel.
 

That knowledge helped me gather my wits.  My sobs quieted, giving way to my determination to defy him.  He might have control of my body, but I would deny him control of my mind.
 

He recognized the return of my willpower.  Again, he proved that he was several steps ahead of me when he scooped me up into his arms.  I gave a little shocked squeal at the disorienting movement.  My sight was still denied me, depriving me of any sense of balance.
 

When he swung me down, my naked thighs came to rest on something cold and hard.  I started crying again when I realized what it was: a toilet.
 

“Fuck you,” I flung at him before my sobs robbed me of the ability to speak.
 

He said nothing; he just allowed me to cry while he petted my hair.  His other hand held the flat of the knife across my throat, a silent warning not to fight him.  For a moment, I considered leaning into the blade, to end this perverted torment.  The psychological torture was so much worse than the physical pain he had inflicted upon me.
 

Death at the edge of his knife was a siren’s call.  The blade had so cruelly stripped me of so many things: my clothing, my dignity.  Why not let it take my life?  At least it would be on my own terms.
 

To my chagrin, I discovered that I was a coward; I just couldn’t do it.
 

I’m not sure how long it took, but he simply waited until my needs overcame my resistance.
 

“I hate you,” I managed to hiss when he lifted me up once again.
 

“I know.”  I could feel him shrug, as though my hatred was of no consequence to him.  His casual demeanor was belied by the hint of pleasure in his voice.  He wanted me to hate him.  Even my loathing was a weapon to be used against me, an indulgence he savored.
 

I shuddered in his arms, but I had no more tears to cry.
 

He laid me down on something soft.  I couldn’t hold in a small sigh of relief that he hadn’t returned me to the cruel metal chair.
 

Before I could even consider pushing through the pain in my stiff limbs to fight him, his hands closed around my upper arms.  His fingers worked my sore muscles, and I couldn’t hold in my moan as the tightness eased.  I went limp beneath him, losing the will to resist.
 

Later.  I’ll fight later.  I’m too weak now, I’m blind, and he has a knife.
 

Yes, later was definitely better.
 

His hands progressed along my arms, drawing them up above my head to stretch my shoulders while he massaged away the pain.
 

Suddenly, his weight settled over my hips, and his forearm pinned down my left wrist while he firmly grasped the right one.
 

“What-”
 

I stopped my panicked question just in time.
 

“What are you doing?”
 

Something soft encircled my wrist, pulling tight just before a metallic tinkling filled my ears.  The quiet
snick
was familiar, and it took me three horrified heartbeats before I accepted the meaning of the sound.
 

Padlock.
 

I struggled in earnest, wildly twisting beneath him, but his weight restrained me as efficiently as the rope that had held me to the chair.
 

He quickly repeated the process on my left wrist.  I jerked against the restraints as soon as he released my hands, but my efforts were met with a clanking sound, and I realized that my range of movement was restricted to no more than a few inches.
 

His fingers gently traced down my arms.  I felt something harder than his hips pressing into my belly.
 

I might have been a virgin, but I wasn’t completely naïve.  My captor was aroused by my struggles.
 

The knowledge increased the frenzy of my instinctive efforts to escape him.
 

“Shhh,” he soothed me again, his hands caressing the outer swell of my breasts.
 

My nipples pebbled automatically at the touch, and bile rose in the back of my throat.
 

Rape.  He’s going to rape me.
 

“Don’t.”  I couldn’t manage to force out more than the one word.
 

“I’m not going to rape you, pet,” he reassured me, reading my thoughts again.  “You’ll ask me to fuck you one day.”
 

“You sick bastard!”  I found my voice.  “You’re crazy!”
 

His hand closed around my throat.  He didn’t squeeze; it was a silent warning.  I went still instantly, my damn survival instinct kicking me into obedience.
 

“I already told you: you don’t know the half of it.  But I won’t tolerate such rude language.  Pets aren’t supposed to speak.  Your words are a privilege, and you should be careful how you use them unless you want to lose that privilege.”
 

I swallowed hard, and my body began to tremble.  Even if I had dared to hurl more insults at him, the fear that clogged my throat would have prevented me from doing so.
 

Maintaining his hold on my neck, he abruptly ripped the blindfold from my eyes.  The flood of light seared them, and I screamed as I clamped my lids closed.
 

“Please-”
 

I stopped myself before I could beg him to return me to the darkness.  Not only did the light hurt, but I was terrified to face my reality, to face
him.
  Somehow, the blindness had made it less real.  If I opened my eyes, the world would take shape around me, and the horror of my situation would become concrete.
 

Coward,
I accused myself.  How could I ever hope to escape if I couldn’t take inventory of my prison?  I needed to learn everything I could about where I was and who my tormentor was if I wanted to see the outside world again.
 

I blinked hard, forcing my eyes to focus.  The room seemed painfully bright, even though my mind registered the fact that it was only dimly lit.  The shadows on my captor’s face told me that much.
 

He shifted where he hovered above me, tilting his face up slightly to force the shadows to dissipate.  Recognition jolted through my gut, and I gasped.
 

The boy from the library.  The beautiful boy I had covertly watched from beneath my lashes as I studied.  My commitment to excellence wasn’t the only reason I had practically lived in that place for the last four years.
 

His cheekbones were high and sharply defined, the lines of his face angular and definitively masculine, despite his youthfully smooth cheeks.  He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old.  Far too young to kidnap and terrorize a woman.
 

His spun-gold hair was simply but carefully styled, as always.  His golden eyes would have matched it perfectly, were it not for the streaks of reddish-brown that shot through his irises.  I had never noticed that before; I had never been close enough.  The red might have turned them an alluring amber, but instead they called to mind something evil.
 

A perversely pleased demon stared down at me, his full lips twisted in what might be considered a smile.
 

No demon should be so beautiful.  Perhaps he was a fallen angel, one of Lucifer’s followers condemned to suffer in Hell for all eternity.  Only, the creature above me didn’t seem to be suffering.  He reveled in his condemnation.
 

“Who are you?”  My words were barely audible.
 

His smile widened to a grin that was almost dazzling in its perfection.
 

Definitely a fallen angel.
 

I realized my folly a moment too late.  I had asked a question.
 

“I am your Master.”
 

My stomach roiled.  “No.”  The sickened protest was automatic, an involuntary denial.  How could the boy I had secretly coveted be the man who was torturing me so mercilessly?  Surely he was too young and innocent to be capable of such evil.
 

He grasped my jaw, stopping the shaking of my head.
 

“Yes,” he told me firmly.  “And you will address me properly when I allow you to speak.”
 

“No.”  My voice wavered with my disbelief and mounting horror.  “Oh, god.  No.”