Jett
The
present
I'm
startled awake by a shrill cry.
I
glance at the clock glowing in the darkness. 3:17 AM. The ear-piercing
shriek happens again, and London stirs, muttering profanities in her
sleepy state. I place my hand on her back.
“Stay.
I’ve got it.”
No
protest. Only a relieved sigh as she rests her head back on the pillow.
I
pad down the hallway bleary and barefoot, following the source of the
disturbance. Flicking on the small lamb lamp, I meet the culprit’s awake
blue eyes and gummy smile. She screams again, in excitement this time as
I approach her.
“Little
girl.” I hoist Shia up out of her crib. “You need to let your mommy rest.
We thought your sister was bad, but I believe, my darling, you take the
cake.” I sit in the pink and white striped glider with my wiggly six
month old climbing up my chest. She just wants to be held. Always wants
to be held. “You need to start crawling,”—I rock with her arms latched
around my neck— “so the house can sleep.” I yawn, silently thanking the
stars above I'm the only one she woke up.
A
tiny giggle and happy feet are her response.
I
stare down at her adorable chubby face as she stares up. “Eyes just like
your mommy with insomnia to match. She never used to sleep, either.” I
rock a little harder, whispering to her. “But she wanted you. She wanted
you so much.” She chortles as I nuzzle her little neck. “She didn't think
she deserved you. Or me or love or happiness. But I set her straight.” I
smile haughtily to myself recalling the past. Recalling my wife and her
strength despite all her struggles. All our struggles.
Shia
fights falling asleep, breathing hard, squirming to stay awake.
“You’re
not going to miss anything, baby.” I hum in her ear, coaxing her to
relax. “We’ll all be here in the morning to love you.” I used to tell
London the same thing when she couldn't sleep. Wouldn't sleep. Downright
refused.
That
seems like a lifetime ago, considering she sleeps like the dead now.
Also,
my doing.
I
rest my head on the back of the chair and close my eyes, hoping the
smooth glide and my steady breathing will soothe the beast.
No
such luck.
I
add a lulling tone. This isn't the first time I’ve wrestled an alligator.
I know the drill.
“What
story shall I tell you tonight? Perhaps the princess one again?” I rock
and rub her little butt littered with cupcakes on the onesie pajamas from
Aunt Ellie and Uncle Kayne.
“Once
upon a time, there was a beautiful princess,” I start. “Who was
controlled by an evil sorcerer…”
London
The
past
I
wish he would just kill me already.
I
float in a black space of pain as my head is submerged underwater, my
lungs burn desperate for air, and my body sodomized. The relentless drill
of my Master’s hips and an iron grip on the back of my neck keeps me
restrained. I start to unconsciously struggle as the rapid loss of oxygen
suffocates me. My limbs spontaneously twitch as I fall away into a
terrifying darkness. Please let this be it. Let the suffering
end.
I
welcome death. Or at least, the
tease of it seconds before I completely black out.
I
never reach the euphoric escape, because he knows exactly how long trap
me in hell. Pulling my head out of the water, he beats into my abused
little asshole as I sputter, cough, and choke until he comes. A stomach
turning growl reverberates from his throat as he rips me open with one,
lone punishing thrust. I nearly throw up from god-awful pain. As soon as
he’s done with me, he lets go, allowing my limp body crash to the ground.
I have no energy left to stand or fight or even live. I shiver, cold and
naked on the dirty floor. A shell of the person I used to be. A person I
barely remember.
After
zipping his leather pants, he crouches down next to me. I cower. Master
grabs a fist full of my hair and yanks so I look him directly the eyes.
Dark, terrible, soulless eyes.
“Who
are you?” he asks in his thick Russian accent.
“No
one,” I immediately respond.
“What
are you?”
“Nothing.”
And
I believe it. I am nothing. He made it so.
His
lips curl into a cruel smile. I've only ever seen half his face because
of the mask he always wears reminiscent of the Phantom of the Opera.
“Such
an obedient pet.” He tosses me away like the nobody I am. The nothing I
mean to him.
“Go
to bed,” he orders, and I instantly move despite the protest of my aching
body and weak limbs. I crawl across the room—never, ever walk—to the cage
in the corner. I know better. I know the consequences of disobedience. I
scurry inside, cold and wet with cum leaking down the inside of my
thighs. Dirty is just how he likes me. Master slams the door closed and
locks it behind me. I look up at him like a pathetic trapped animal.
He
knows that's exactly what I am too. That smug thought reflects in his
empty hazel eyes. I'm his property, his pet.
“Lie
down.”
I
do as I'm told, curling into the fetal position. I don't have much room.
This four foot by four foot metal square is where I live.
And
I'm nearly five-foot-eight.
“Good
girl.” The arrogance in his tone is disgusting. I don't show my disdain.
Just fake forlorn with the pitiful part I play. Is it still a part? Or is
who I’ve become? That line has blurred in recent months.
I
watch as my Master saunters out of the room. Alone again. I cry my
desolate tears inside. I’ve learned my lesson. No sadness or fight or
voice. My liberties have been stolen away. I curl tighter on the thin
scratchy blanket, struggling to get warm. It's always cold. I'm always
naked. Always hungry. Always desperate. You have no idea what I had to do
to get this small everyday item most people take for granted.
He’s
a monster.
I
don't know how long he’s owned me, but it feels like a lifetime. I can't
even remember how I got here. I just woke up one day, shortly after I
turned sixteen, in this very spot. In my frilly pajamas, still an
innocent girl.
I'm
not innocent anymore. He saw to that. The first day stripping my dignity
away as he made me shed my clothes. I cried, I fought, I screamed, but
ultimately, he won. Overpowering me in both mind and body.
He
punishes me severely if I disobey. Verbally, physically, sexually. Making
it crystal clear who is Master and who is slave in this twisted
arrangement.
I’ve been forced to perform numerous
sexual acts like a circus freak. With men, with women, with him. I was
taught to pleasure but never be pleasured. That is not my purpose. I was
forced to submit, to obey, to satisfy however instructed. To absorb the
pain, unless it's pain he wanted to see.
He’s
good at pain. At demoralizing. At demeaning.
He
thrives on it. Lives for it. I feel his satisfaction after every horrific
interaction we have.
I'll
never understand how this became my life. My hell.
I
shiver until I fall asleep.
Dreaming
of nothing more than a hot shower and a warm bed.
Add Elicit
to your TBR.
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