Days lost meaning as time passed into weeks. If Natalie were a missing person, she hadn't heard. She hadn't heard anything about anything, except from Dexter.

She'd boarded the plane in Boston on a Friday in mid-December. It had been before Christmas and her sister's birthday. She'd tried to keep track of time, but days and nights intertwined. Sometimes when Dexter arrived with breakfast, it was still dark through the small window. Some days it never seemed to get fully light. Other times, their day would end, and the light would persist.

After a few days, she earned artificial lighting. At first, she hadn't seen the source. It was a rope-type light hidden high above in the seam between the wall and ceiling that only Dexter could control. Though the room was still stark, the light helped her spirit.

Everything in Natalie's life came with a price, the value determined by Dexter. Whether it was towels for the bathroom, washcloths, sheets, or even a pillow for the bed, only he could assign their worth. Sometimes it was an act of submission or obedience. Other times, a thought or a feeling, verbally shared. Sometimes it was memories, specific questions about subjects she often wondered how he knew about.

She could question him—it was an option—but like the positive items she earned, questioning Dexter also received reinforcement—the negative kind. Questions by him were to be met with truthful answers, not more questions. Nevertheless, there were times when Natalie would purposely opt for his punishment. Accepting the sting of his belt was at times easier than recalling memories. To talk about her family and her life before while enduring her new existence was at times too much for her to bear. The bruises upon her skin would heal. The raw emotion of her wasted life and abandoned family kept her awake for hours.

While it could be perceived otherwise, everything was Natalie’s choice. She could opt not to give the price Dexter determined. Which did she want: the reward or the punishment? In all things, the final decision was hers.

A mortifying change in Natalie's life was bathing. Due to Dexter’s rule about self-gratification, when she first arrived, taking a bath wasn't allowed to be done in private. It wasn't enough that she knew Dexter could watch via camera: he insisted on being present. At first, he physically bathed her as if she were a toddler in need of assistance. When it was his hand that wielded the soft sponge or cloth, she was rewarded with rich-smelling bath salts, soaps, shampoo, and conditioner. And then after he'd dry her—all of her—he'd instruct her to lie on the mattress and he'd cover her skin in velvety lotions. The scents varied, but their presence permeated the musty air, creating a pleasant cloud.

Though Dexter claimed she was his, that she belonged to him, Natalie didn't really know him. His touch made her uneasy. Subconsciously, she'd tense.

Nothing remained subconscious—nothing. Dexter required her thoughts and feelings on everything he did, that she made him do, and on every reward or punishment.

“Tell me how it felt when I slapped you.”

“It hurt.” The answer was honest and not overthought.

“No, bug.” Dexter touched her chest, the spot between her breasts where her heart resided, not the one that pumped blood, but the metaphoric one that controlled emotion. “How did it feel?”

The talking was worse than the actions.

It was one thing to be made to stand in a corner for hours, like a rebellious child. It was another to describe the humiliation. It was one thing to be required to crawl to his feet and sit like a pet between his knees, another to admit that the shame made her wet.

Without a mirror, she couldn't see her face, but she could see the bruises that often discolored her skin. The first one he’d given her, on her thigh, had faded, but others had taken its place. Some were felt more than seen, such as those that sometimes made sitting difficult. Others resulted from restraints or the hard floor.

After Natalie confessed that she didn't like being bathed, Dexter stopped. Since he'd listened, she should have been happy. Yet she wasn't. From that moment forward, the soap he brought to her each day for her bath was abrasive and strong-smelling. The water without the bath salts reeked of sulfur and dried her skin. The shampoo barely lathered, and of course, the lotions ceased to appear. Natalie was now free to bathe herself—with his supervision—but her honesty came with a price.

Though she now had items, like sheets, blankets, and towels, they all lacked one thing—color. The only tint outside shades of white in her world came from Dexter: his sparkling eyes, his jeans—black or blue, the color of his shirts. It fascinated her each time he entered the room. Such as the black and white photographs with one red flower or blue umbrella, Dexter’s rainbow of hues became her focus. She’d watch his every move, as long as she was positioned in a way that she could see.

The day he wore a green shirt, she dreamt of the fields in Iowa. A blue one would remind her of the sky on a clear summer’s day. Even black held meaning—a contrast to the white of her room.

Over the weeks, Natalie’s life became a predictable routine. Sometimes she'd wake before Dexter arrived with her breakfast, other times she was asleep. No matter, she quickly learned the sound of his arrival, and after a few slow-to-rise mornings that resulted in his desired punishment, Natalie always stood as she'd been instructed, presenting herself for his entry.

After breakfast was exercise time. There weren't many options in a 12-by-8-foot room. Dexter's requirement was that she continued to move. Walk, dance, run in place, do jumping jacks, or sit-ups, the choice was hers, but standing still or sitting or lying upon the bed—the only furniture that remained permanently in her room—was forbidden. This activity continued nonstop and lasted until he arrived with her lunch. Though she had no way to tell the time, she knew it varied. Some days, exercise went on and on until continuing to pace took the last of her energy.

Meals were earned, never to be expected. Usually she sat with Dexter at the small table. Sometimes she was permitted the covering of her blanket, other times not. If he were feeling particularly dominant, she ate on the floor, kneeling at his feet, her food coming from his fingers. She soon learned that the number of chairs at the table was the deciding factor. As she stood in his desired position, her breathing would quicken if the door shut with only one chair in place.

It meant that her walking for that part of the day was done. On all fours with her breasts swinging, she'd approach his feet.

Between lunch and dinner was what Dexter referred to as his time. It was when Natalie's job—her ability to earn a reward—was contingent upon his pleasure and often her humiliation. He'd remind her that only he could do these things to her, only he could mark her skin and debase her. The world would see her as his queen, but first, she needed to please her king.

As the weeks passed, her virginity stayed intact.

It wasn't that he didn't touch her; he did. His fingers and hands roamed her face, neck, and collarbone. She'd stand or lie—whatever position he requested—as her breasts, tummy, and behind were pleased or punished. He saw all of her, yet he never breached her vagina.

The inattention to that particular area, combined with his actions and dominating presence, awakened her arousal, creating a desire for things she'd never before considered. Erotic, sensual needs monopolized her thoughts.

Where at first she'd thought of her parents and family, over time, it happened less and less. It wasn't because she didn't care about them, but that they lost their relevance. Dexter was in control of every facet of her life.

He was her god and her devil. His presence and approval infiltrated even her dreams.

At night, her hands would ache to give herself relief. When he'd first forbidden her self-pleasure, she'd thought it would be the easiest rule to keep. Now, it was nearly impossible. There were even times that she’d fidget against the rough sheets allowing them to abrade her hard nipples. It was when her hands wandered in her sleep that she’d quickly awaken and move them within sight of the cameras, scared that with merely one rub of her clit, she'd lose the bedding she'd earned.

Masturbating had never dwelled within her thoughts, but when she was alone with the memories of his most recent Dexter-time, the need was almost too great not to face. She recalled the way her hands had been outstretched and tied to the bed's metal frame. How her knees were bent beneath her and a bar had been positioned, attached to her ankles and also bound to the bed. How he'd verbally described his view.

Tears dampened her pillow at the memory. It was mortifying enough to know she'd been on display, her ass in the air and her most private parts exposed, but when that was accompanied by her own body's betrayal, a glistening essence leaking down her thighs, it added to her agony.

Bathing was next on the schedule after Dexter-time and then dinner.

After dinner, there were minutes or hours before the lights went out. That time was spent either alone or in Dexter's presence. That was up to him, his schedule, and his responsibilities.

Natalie didn't know what he did when he wasn't with her. She knew nothing about anything beyond the door. All that could be seen from her designated place, the place where she was to stand when he entered or exited—assuming she wasn't bound or being punished—was a gray hallway, the opposite wall made of concrete blocks.

Wherever Dexter went or whatever he did, he was clean and smelled of fresh air and dominating spicy musk whenever he entered her room. Wherever he spent his time away from her, it wasn't in a dingy cement room. Despite the things he did to her, she found herself missing him when he was gone. Maybe his threat had been right, the one in the airport in Munich about her sanity. Maybe she was insane. Who would actually want this man's presence?

Yet loneliness was a nasty enemy. It gnawed at her thoughts like a starved rodent. While with Dexter, her mind was filled with him. His actions dominated her body and her thoughts. The anticipation of his next move kept her on alert. Rarely could she calculate his plans, yet there were signs she’d learned to read that gave her a welcome sense of predictability.

If Natalie had crawled to her meal, she could be assured that he would test her tolerance during his Dexter-time. While that expectedness would have been unimaginable before her life with him, in some ways she now found it comforting. It was when they sat and conversed like a normal couple consuming a shared meal that she found herself anxious and distressed. Though she knew better than to show it outwardly, inwardly she was on hyperalert.

The gallant even humorous man could almost make her forget that she was his prisoner. His aqua eyes could sparkle as he listened to her speak. His laugh filled her cell with the carefree joviality it usually lacked. During those times, even the lighting seemed brighter. Yet it could all change in the blink of an eye. It was the glimpses into the kind man who Dexter was capable of being that made his brutal reality more frightening.

As much as his different personalities stressed her nerves, when he was gone and she was alone, Natalie was worse. Yes, her skin didn’t bruise. She didn’t cry out with pain. She didn’t break down with humiliation. However, when she was alone, she had time to think. She had time to reflect, to question, and to regret.

Her arousal at his arrival was more than sexual; it was genuine happiness to be freed from the prison of her lonely cell. It was relief that only Dexter could provide.

The only true measure of time came with Natalie’s period. She'd always been regular: every four weeks like clockwork. Telling him wasn't necessary: she'd awakened with the realization.

Of all the humiliations she'd endured at his hands, this wasn't one. While she anticipated perhaps his anger over the soiled sheets and even demoralizing words, she hadn't expected what she instead received: his understanding. Feminine hygiene products appeared and her schedule lightened. Natalie wanted to tell him that she wasn't ill. It wasn't like needing a pass to be excused from gym class. Yet the reprieve was welcome.

His only demand was that she inform him when it was complete.

Like the fleeting peeks into his softer self, the amnesty was only temporary.

Her period had ended over a week ago, and now lunch was done. Since her return to their regular schedule, Dexter-time had taken on new vigor, as if during the reprieve he'd conjured new ways to let her earn the kindness he'd already paid to her.

It didn’t make sense to want him with her. Natalie knew what Dexter would do—maybe not exactly, but she knew he would abuse her body and test her limits. She could anticipate expressing anything from whimpers to incoherent screams as she worked to endure the pain. She also knew that once he was satisfied, he’d make it better.

He’d explained that it was his responsibility to take care of her. That was why he fed her and met her needs. She was his—his queen. He would take what he wanted because he was the king, but at the same time, he’d always give her what she needed.