Chapter Thirteen

 

Tamara

Dinner is a silent affair. It’s lobster and risotto, utterly delicious as always, but these days it’s hard for me to appreciate the endless series of gourmet meals. I’m using all my mental energy to keep my mind as blank as possible. I start to play Top 40 hits in my head, but that just makes me start to cry, because I realize I may never hear another new song, and I love music. My tears drip onto the plate, but Master doesn’t say a word.

When he sets his fork and knife down, I follow suit, my aching muscles tensing up. Now what?

But he just looks at me, his eyes gone glacial.

“You’re going to make a decision for me,” he says. And he proceeds to describe two horrible men—a judge who takes money to betray children, and an evil man who’s sexually attracted to little girls and who will get full custody of his children very soon. He wants to know which one he should kill.

“Both of them, Master,” I say, surprised he’d even ask.

He looks thoughtful. “Why?”

“Child molesters have an extremely high recidivism rate, so even if this pervert doesn’t get custody of his children, he’ll molest someone else. And the judge will keep on giving custody to abusive men, and the children and their mothers will suffer, Master.”

“And you have no moral qualms about the killing whatsoever?” He looks interested, not angry. Good. This is a good thing.

“These men are monsters who prey on innocent victims and ruin lives. So no, Master,” I say with complete conviction. “I believe in the death penalty under some circumstances, and both these men fit the criteria for those who I think deserve it.”

Master frowns, tenting his fingers. “It’s a toss-up, but I believe that Mr. Hamilton ultimately makes the better choice. He’s in better physical condition than the judge.”

I look at him in confusion.

“I’m not killing because of the victims, Tamara. Remember that. You’re supposed to help me pick the man who will provide the most entertaining experience for me.”

I struggle to keep the disgust from my expression and voice. “I’m sorry, Master. I am trying to be helpful. It is not possible for me to think the same way that you do, so I would not be able to select the appropriate person. I believe it would be best to kill them both. From what you tell me about them, they should both fight each other to the death, Master.”

He nods. “Never done that before. Might be entertaining. All right, Tamara, you will return to your room now.”

He means my cell.

After I’m chained to the floor, I slump on my mattress and try to think of ways to build a wall around my thoughts. To distract myself, I start doing the tapping routine, although I don’t bother with the words anymore. They’ve lost their meaning.

I lie down on the mattress with my back to the video camera, snatching the tiniest bit of privacy for myself. So, Tam, what do you do next? I can’t surrender to the level that he wants me to. I don’t think it’s even possible. He wants me to give up all hope of escape and live only to serve him, but of course I can’t do that. This isn’t George Orwell’s 1984, where you can make someone think things that just aren’t true.

Or can you?

For hours after he made me say I loved him, I was in a strange daze of longing and gratitude. Yes, I was grateful to him for turning off the electricity. Thankful to him for rubbing ice on my tortured nipples, for the gentleness of his hands, for the way he looked at me when he eased my pain, as if I was magical and beautiful and treasured.

I know it’s insane. How could I be grateful to the man who tortured me, just because he stopped torturing me?

But there’s a part of me that just wants to give in. Fighting him is so exhausting. If I did everything he wanted, if I gave up all hope of escape, would he treat me differently? Would he be kind to me more often? Would he let me talk to him, and would he answer me?

The way he touches me when he’s being gentle, the way he drives all thoughts of my stepfather from my mind with his sensual bathing rituals… He didn’t have to do that for me. He could have forced himself on me. He didn’t have to let me have control over such a private area of my body. He doesn’t have to devote so much time to my pleasure when he’s bathing me.

No. This is all part of his plan to break me down. This bastard is trying to turn me into some kind of pathetic robot. He’s trying to make me into Elizabeth. Putting a collar on me and leading me like a dog, mocking me, forcing me to be silent all day long. I can’t even have a conversation with him. I can’t do this. I can’t, I won’t.

Come on, Tam with a Plan. Think! I took an acting class once in high school. I cast my mind back to those techniques. Method acting. Live the part you’re playing.

When he asks me what I’ve been thinking, I need to be ready for it. If he surprises me with a question, I don’t think I’ll be able to fool him, but if I’m prepared, I might be able to carry it off. I start thinking about all the questions he could ask me, and rehearsing answers to them. When I finally drop off into an exhausted, dreamless sleep, I can’t say I feel good, but at least I’ve stoked that tiny, flickering flame of hope before it died out completely.

In the morning, after Elizabeth takes me upstairs, he bathes me again. And again, he asks me if he can kiss my pussy.

I politely say, “No, Master.” I’m more desperate than ever now to hold on to what little power I have left. And this is the only way I can think of playing my game, pretending I’m still resisting just the right amount.

Does that mean that sooner or later I’ll have to give in?

God, I hope not. My self-respect has already taken such a horrible beating, I can’t stand the thought of sinking much lower.

After the bath, he again makes me kneel and take him in my mouth. I’ve been practicing my breathing, holding my breath and timing myself. I’m getting a little better with each day. I hate to admit it to myself, but I love sucking him off. There’s so little chance for me to feel good about myself here that this little achievement every morning feels great. I love how much pleasure it gives him. I try to draw it out as long as I can, caressing his balls, grasping the root of his cock, moving my head fast and then stopping. The loud groans of pleasure when he comes, the tender way he caresses my head…it sickens me how much I’ve come to look forward to that each morning.

When I wake up each day with my heart pounding, I calm myself down by thinking about that short time in the bathroom when I can control the way he treats me. Do a good job sucking him off, and he will be kind to me.

But the second it’s over, the collar and ankle cuffs go on.

The next few days drag by miserably. It’s the same thing every single day. The two bright spots in my day are when he bathes me and when I exercise. That’s the only time when I’m out of my dark, lonely cell, and also allowed to be without the collar and ankle cuffs. I can walk around the house the rest of the time, but there’s no pleasure with the collar on. It’s driving me mad. I’m forced to stare straight ahead all day long. I want to read to alleviate my boredom, but it’s too physically uncomfortable.

I dread our meals, the sloppy way I’m forced to eat, the scorn in his voice as he orders me to clean up my disgusting messes.

Three or four days later—who even knows anymore—he looks up after we finish lunch and says, “Look at me, Tamara. How many times today did you think that I wasn’t your master?”

I stare at him. It’s the moment of truth. Or lies, which I plan on telling him.

“Two, Master,” I tell him. The truth is five.

And it works.

He nods.

I’ve even practiced my response to my confession. I manufacture a flash of fear and sorrow, rather than the true triumph I feel. It’s a tiny victory, but I’ll take anything I can get at this point.

“Then that’s how many times I’m going to whip each of your tits,” he says. He fetches the leash to lead me to the playroom.

And I’m pathetically relieved at the break in my dull daily routine. After the pain, he’ll comfort me. I know he will.

He leads me to the wall, removes my collar, then tells me to take my shirt off. Then he goes to fetch a riding crop with a small black rectangle at the end. “Keep your back against the wall. Raise your hands over your head. If you lower your hands or move off that spot, I start all over again, from one,” he informs me. “And after every strike, you will say, ‘Thank you, Master.’”

I stand perfectly still, arms raised over my head, braced for the first slash. He brings his arm down in a vicious diagonal swipe. After the horrible initial sting, it feels like someone drew a red-hot knife through my flesh. “Thank you, Master!” I scream.

Then he does it again. And again. I jump and cry out in pain each time, then quickly cry out, “Thank you, Master!”

By the fourth one, I can’t stop myself. My hands involuntarily fly out, trying to block him.

He lowers his arm and just looks at me. Waiting. Smiling faintly.

“No, please, Master,” I cry out. “I’m sorry, Master!”

It doesn’t do any good. I wail helplessly as I raise my hands again, and it takes everything I have not to lower my arms this time. Lines of fire crisscross on my breasts.

I am howling by the time he finishes.

“Oh God, oh God,” I sob as he leads me over to the table. He makes me lie down on my back.

We go through the routine with the numbing cream, his strong hands massaging pure relief into my tortured flesh. I don’t want it to end, ever. I’m desperate for this intimate connection.

I no longer try to stifle my moans of pleasure. I let my body do what it wants. I arch my back a little, thrusting my breasts up at him, and I make little noises as he strokes me with those amazing hands. Those hands that can cut and kill and also delight.

My moans, my submission, seem to encourage him, because he massages me for a long time. His thumbs glide over my nipples, and I go “mmm,” and he tweaks them gently, pulling them up until they’re stiff little peaks of desire.

When it comes to inflicting pain, he leaves me no choice at all. But when it comes to pleasure, he gives me complete control of what’s done to my body, taking my verbal cues and my facial expressions as orders.

Finally, he stops, and I want to cry out from the loss of his warm, strong hands on me.

The collar and the ankle cuffs go back on. I am not allowed to wear a shirt or bra for the rest of the day. With every step I take, with every bounce of my breasts, pain ripples through the whip marks and brings me to tears. The whip marks are slashes of shame across my flesh.

The next day, I think “You are not my master” five times, and I lie that evening when he asks me about it, and tell him none. And he buys it.

I don’t feel as excited about my small victory as I thought I would, though. I’m so bored, so lonely, so desperate for any contact at all. All I can think about is how much I hate that collar on my neck and the short, mincing steps I take all day long. I spend most of my time leaning back in a chair or lying flat on my back on a couch in the library.

Each morning, my resistance wanes. I have always craved social interaction, even the simple exchange of buying a cup of coffee in the morning. I used to rush out of my apartment in the morning, eager for everything the day could fling at me. Now my world has become so dull, so gray. I am starving for a break in the monotony.

One morning, he asks me if he can kiss my pussy, and I hear myself say, “Yes, Master.” I didn’t plan it. I thought I’d never do it. It’s like a different Tamara is speaking.

I’m just so desperate for any change, anything new. And if he’s going down on me, that’s that much more time without the collar.

But he doesn’t do it. He smiles at me and massages me gently between my legs until I’m throbbing and aching with need, but he doesn’t kiss my pussy.

The next morning, he asks me again. This time, I beg him. “Yes, Master, please kiss my pussy. Please, Master.” And his smile is broader and warmer than yesterday’s as he reaches out to take my hand.