Mentor (An Impossible Novella) (5 page)

If I acted compliant, maybe he would reveal his reasons for abducting me without me having to ask a question.  I thought of all he had taken from me.  I wasn’t sure if I could bear the cost of another query.
 

“Yes.  Master.”  I added the title in as meek a tone as I could manage.
 

I had expected his pleasure at my obedience, but instead I could practically feel his frown through the thick silence that fell over me.
 

“Did I…  I’m sorry if I did something wrong.”  The tremor in my voice grated on my pride.
 

I’m just pretending.  I’m not really worried that I upset him.  
A part of me acknowledged that the last part was a lie.  My thighs still throbbed from his punishment, and I feared further abuse.
 

I pressed my legs together, an automatic attempt to protect myself.  The flare of pain from the pressure on my bruises made me wince.
 

His fingertips trailed down my thighs in that same soothing rhythm that tormented my mind so cruelly.
 

“No, pet.  You didn’t do anything wrong.  That was very good.”  Despite his words of approval, his tone held a thread of regret.
 

What did he want from me?  He had demanded obedience.  Was his true desire my pain, my anguish?
 

No.  
I couldn’t think like that.  I had to press on with my plan.  With great effort, I forced the tension from my muscles, adopting a compliant façade.
 

My cuffs tugged at my arms as he released the tiny padlocks that secured them to my wrists.  Once I was free, his arm snaked around my upper back, propping me up so that I was cradled against his chest.
 

“Open your mouth.”
 

I only hesitated for a heartbeat before obeying.
 

Be good.
  I might have been freed from my restraints, but I didn’t have a hope of escaping his firm hold.  His hard chest and corded arms reminded me of his strength all too clearly.  If I fought, he would hurt me again.  That might please him, but it wouldn’t help me manipulate him into releasing me.
 

Just as it had the first time, water dripped from his cupped hand as he brought it to my lips.  It seemed the only way I would find sustenance while in captivity would be to accept it from his hands.  He fed me meat this time.  I accepted small chunks of it from between his fingers.  It was warm and rich on my tongue, and more flavorful than anything I could recall.
 

When he deemed that I had eaten enough, he gave me more water.  He pressed his fingers into my mouth again, forcing me to suckle him to get what I needed.
 

I tamped down my fury and revulsion, resolutely remaining supple in his hold.
 

Don’t fight.  Don’t bite him.
 

“Thank you, Master.”  Even though the water had wet my mouth, the words spread dry ashes on my tongue.
 

I need him to trust me.  I need him to talk to me.
 

His only response was a surprised grunt.
 

What was I doing wrong?  Fearful desperation obliterated any plans for careful patience.
 

“Why are you doing this?”
 

I snapped my mouth closed so firmly that my teeth caught my cheek.  Salty blood touched my tongue.
 

“I’m sorry,” I gasped.  “Please.  Don’t answer.  Don’t-”
 

My words were cut off by a surprised squeal when his free arm hooked beneath my knees, lifting me up.  The sensation of being carried was disorienting.  It momentarily robbed me of the ability to think in the wake of primal panic at the fear of falling.  Instinctively, I clutched at him, my fists balling in the front of his shirt as I sought something solid to steady myself.
 

He didn’t release his hold on my waist when he eased my legs down.  My feet touched the floor.  It was cold and smooth, more familiar beneath my soles than I would have expected of the rough concrete.
 

A shocked shout burst from me when the freezing water hit my back.  I tried to run, to escape from the frigid cascade that made my skin pebble and my nerve endings scream.
 

His growl was harsh and forbidding, and his hands curled around my hips to hold me firmly under the spray.  It occurred to me that the cold water must be hitting him, too, but his stance suggested that he held most of his body away from it.
 

He’s standing outside the shower.
 

I was still blind, but my mind pieced it together.
 

My arms wrapped tightly around my chest in an effort to ward off the chill.  Agonizing minutes passed while the water slowly grew warmer.  By the time it was tepid, my teeth were chattering madly and my entire body was shaking.
 

His hands shifted to rub up and down my arms, pressing the warming water into my skin to alleviate the misery of the cold.  I leaned into him, craving his heat.
 

“I’m doing this because I want to.”  The answer was matter-of-fact, almost detached.
 

The water had grown as hot as my tears by the time they began trickling down my face.  My earlier suspicions were proving to be correct: he wanted my anguish more than my obedience, and he didn’t possess a shred of humanity.
 

Once again, I was paying a steep price for a useless answer.  Between the punishing cold shower and his intimate touches, this consequence promised a blend of pain and humiliation.  I had no doubt he intended to push me to that pathetic state where I looked to him for comfort after his torment.
 

I resolved not to give in.  Not again.
 

My resistance proved to be a pitiful thing.
 

His hands were slick as they ran over my skin, returning heat to my frigid flesh.  The slippery soap made his calloused palms feel almost glossy as they roved over me.  He began innocently enough – well, as innocent as a man violating a naked woman can manage – rubbing my arms, my shoulders.  By the time he worked soap into my hair, my skin was tingling from the water’s hot spray and the glorious release of tension.
 

How could his touch be so merciful and so ruthless at the same time?
 

His fingers tickled down the column of my neck, making me shiver from something other than cold.  He moved downward, rubbing his palms in a circular motion as he neared my breasts.  I braced myself for abuse, but he skirted around them, smoothing his hands down my sides to wash my stomach.  His fingers teased the lower swell of my breasts.  They suddenly felt heavier, and my nipples began to throb in an unfamiliar tempo.  When he finally grazed his palms over the tightened peaks, I gasped.  I only just managed to stop myself from arching into his touch.
 

No.  My body wasn’t enjoying this treatment.  It couldn’t.
 

I focused on my hatred.  It bloomed white hot in my dark world, its righteous brilliance spreading throughout my being until I shook from my rage rather than in response to his touch.
 

I cried out when his hand gripped my sex hard, his disapproving growl vibrating against my skin.  He could read me all too easily.
 

The fear that arose in response to that knowledge shattered my concentration, and I forgot my hatred.  All that existed was the shock of his hand on the place that had never been touched so intimately, not even by me.
 

His fingers roughly explored my folds, rubbing soap between them.  I wasn’t entire sure if the slickness there was from the water that coursed down my body.  I didn’t dare contemplate what else it might be.
 

In my blindness, the humiliation of being washed and the shock of violation overwhelmed all thought.
 

My mind broke.
 

He tenderly pulled my sobbing body against his, holding me as the water cascaded over both of us.  The thin material of his t-shirt was a barely perceptible barrier between us.  It was sodden, plastered to him like a second skin.  My body had never been so closely molded to a man’s.  The unfamiliarity, the foreignness of it all, only further pushed me into mindless despair.
 

Eventually, he deemed that I was thoroughly clean.  He wrapped a soft, fluffy towel around me, hugging me to his chest as he carried me back to my bed.
 

I didn’t even try to fight him when he secured my restraints around my wrists.
 

My
bed.  
My
restraints.
 

I shuddered at my mind’s acceptance of my prison.
 

He gently removed the sodden blindfold, but my eyes didn’t have time to adjust to the light before he tied a dry strip of cloth around my head.
 

Relief warred with regret at my prolonged blindness.  Being trapped in the dark was hastening my descent into madness.  I had no sense of time, no perception of the world around me.
 

But sight would mean seeing
his
face, so beautiful and yet so fearsome.  Would his eyes shine gold or flash red as he looked down upon my nakedness?
 

I didn’t want to know.
 

His Journal
 

May 2, 1978
 

It’s been ten days since she asked her last question.  When I first found her to be so sweetly obedient, I feared I would have to dispose of her sooner than I had wished.  If she had truly broken so quickly, I would have grown bored of her much faster.
 

When I realized it was a ploy to win my trust, I was pleased.  Possibly even thrilled.  I can’t be sure.  I’ve never been thrilled before.  Whatever it was, I enjoyed it immensely.
 

I can’t decide whether I’m happy or disappointed that she hasn’t asked another question since then.  Emotions are unfamiliar and often seem interchangeable for me.  They are all so visceral.  Now that I hold her life in my hands, I have that glorious feeling of being alive all the time.
 

I can say with certainty that I am more than satisfied at her resilience.  She won’t break any time soon.  In a way, I don’t really want her to.  I might have to find a new toy if she can no longer fulfill my needs.
 

But for now, she only stokes my need, this lust that had always eluded me until I took her.  I promised that I wouldn’t rape her, and I’ll stick to my word.  Forcing her to ask me to fuck her will make it worth the wait.  I’ve learned to slake myself to thoughts of her body writhing beneath me, her cries giving voice to the mix of pleasure and pain that I give her.  One day, she won’t know the difference between the two, just as I can hardly discern between joy and anger.  My darkness will taint her, twist her into something like me.  She’ll be truly broken.
 

I’m not sure if I crave or dread the day when that will happen.  It might just be the day I have to kill her.
 

Chapter 4
 

Kathleen
 

Why me?
 

What would Mary Richards do?
 

I laughed hollowly into the darkness.  My old mantra seemed as useless as my fettered arms.  Mary Richards had faced being a single career woman in a male-dominated field.  She had never dealt with imprisonment and psychological torture.

For so many years, she had been my heroine.  She was an independent woman who didn’t need a man to create a happy, successful life for herself.  When I first saw
The Mary Tyler Moore Show
at the age of fourteen, I found my role model.

Now, I had replayed every episode in my head.  For a while, the Technicolor images that filled my mind helped to stave off the delirium brought on by the ever-present, crushing darkness.  But joy soon gave way to obsession as I clung to the stories, playing them again and again.  Then obsession had given way to anger and resentment, and I couldn’t even bear to think one verse of Sonny Curtis’ “Love is All Around.”

I wasn’t gonna make it after all.

The life I had dreamed of having in Chicago – a career in advertising and a one-bedroom apartment – was so far from my current reality that it was painful to think about.

I hadn’t been allowed the luxury of sight in…  Well, I didn’t know how long.  It felt like years, but it might have been days.

Every time I had an opportunity to glimpse him, I had wasted it out of fear.  I didn’t want to look up into those terrifying, mesmerizing eyes.  I had precious seconds to view the world around me when He changed out my sodden blindfold for a dry one after he washed me.

In truth, the time it took him to complete that task was probably too brief for my eyes to adjust.  Even the dim light burned through my eyelids in those few heartbeats when I might have gazed upon him.

Him, He.  
I was beginning to think of him as the only man, the only real thing in the world.  He didn’t have a name, but I had to have some way of thinking of him.  And I refused to think of him as Master, even though I used the honorific title when He allowed me to speak a few precious words.

At first, my voice had been strong.  I spoke to myself for long periods of time in order to cut through the painful silence.  But I was slowly growing to hate the sound of my own voice.  What good was talking if there was no one there to answer?  And I didn’t dare ask questions when He came to me.  Conversation was impossible when the exchanges between us only allowed a brief “Yes, Master” or “No, Master” on my part.  Now, moving my tongue to shape even those simple words was becoming difficult.