Chapter Eighteen

 

Joshua

I feel an unusual nervousness as I glide into the parking spot in my building. I haven’t been to the office ever since I took Toy.

With the threat of the phantom texter hanging over my head, and all the weirdness that’s been happening to me lately, I don’t like leaving Toy alone in the house with Elizabeth. Oh, she’s chained up and safe in her cell, but with someone still out there who delights in fucking with me, and who apparently has a way to hack into my system and set off the perimeter alarms, leaving the house like this is a huge risk.

There’s one option I have if anyone attempts to breach the perimeter of my house. The nuclear option. Since I bring my hunting prey to the house, there would be too much risk of police finding DNA if anything were to lead them there. So I’ve wired my house in such a way that I can, just by calling in a certain code, cause it to explode completely, obliterating any trace of its existence—along with anything and anyone inside it.

No more Toy. Ever.

The thought creates a strange hollowness in me, but of course, if it ever became necessary, I could do it without blinking an eye.

Couldn’t I?

I force myself to try to picture my life without her, and my brain rebels. I clench my fists in frustration, opening and closing them. On some level, our roles have reversed. I’m keeping her body prisoner, but she’s taken my mind hostage.

I can’t understand Toy’s effect on me. What is it about her, specifically, that has called up something new and un-nameable inside me?

Plato believed humans were split apart before they were sent to Earth, and spent their entire lives searching for their missing half. He said that love tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature.

But that can’t be the answer for me. I’d never be drawn to someone like myself; I’m a perfect monster.

And Toy is nothing like me. Oh, I know she’s a survivor—she crawled away from the wreckage of her past and rose to her feet and found her place in the world. But the similarity stops there. She is the exact opposite of me in her dealings with people, the yin to my yang. I want to open wounds; she wants to heal them.

I mutter curses under my breath as I slide out of my car and head for my office. I really, really don’t want to be here today.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have a choice.

A police detective contacted my office and asked to see me but refused to say why. He wanted me to come down to the station to meet him. As if. I can handle myself with perfect calm and control anywhere, but why hand him any advantages?

So I called my lawyer and arranged for him to meet me and the detective in the conference room of my building. My lawyer’s advice was to make the police wait until they were willing to say why they wanted to talk to me, but I think I’d better get ahead of all this.

The police detective, Sergeant Ruiz, is a Hispanic man in his forties, has a gut lapping over his belt, and gray in his black gelled hair.

Like most people, he’s not good at hiding his true emotions. He means to show me a poker face, but I can see his disdain in the subconscious curl of his lip, the lines strung tight across his forehead. I don’t think it’s the typical envy and distrust that the working class have for men like me; I’m pretty sure it goes deeper than that.

My lawyer, Algernon Brooks, who looks every bit as preppy and haughty as his name, sinks down into a seat next to me. After we get the introductions out of the way, the detective places a manila folder on the table. He opens it and takes out a picture that he slides across the table for me to look at. A driver’s license picture. Tamara Bennett, who is now my Toy.

“Tamara something,” I say to him. “She worked for us as an office clerk for a little while over the summer. How can I help you, Sergeant Ruiz?”

To amuse myself, I manufacture an image of what she’s doing right now. Crying out to the camera, bruises half-healed, beautiful tears streaming down her cheeks, her voice hoarse with sorrow as she begs to serve me. And there’s not a damn thing that Sergeant Ruiz can do to save her.

“She’s been missing for almost a month now,” he informs me.

I frown in manufactured dismay. “Yes, I know—my human resources director informed me that she’d been contacted by your department a little while back. I was sorry to hear it, but I’m not sure how I can help you. She was a summer intern, and she left our firm, I think to start school.”

He ignores the question. “She didn’t just leave, though, did she? You fired her. Why?” he asks me.

Who the hell told him that? Now I’m starting to get genuinely pissed off.

I favor him with a pleasant, uninterested smile. “She acted inappropriately at a party. However, I hardly see how that’s relevant.”

“In what way did she act inappropriately?”

I lift my shoulders in a minimal, dismissive shrug. “She’d been drinking too much. Tried to flirt with some of the married guests.”

“Why did you claim that she’d left to start school when you’d actually fired her?”

“Because she would have finished with us either way, and her firing wasn’t a big deal. It was a temp job. She was nearing the end of her contract.” It’s a non-answer, but there’s not much Ruiz can do with it unless he wants to call me a liar to my face.

His eyes bore into me. “Interestingly, one of your security guards has also disappeared. His wife reported him missing. The last time that he worked was the day after the party.”

Yet again, I am reminded of what a stupid mistake that was.

“What does this have to do with my client?” My lawyer’s tone has a snap to it.

Ruiz doesn’t even spare him a glance. “Furthermore, you haven’t been coming in to work ever since the night of the party—which, as far as we know, is the last time Tamara Bennett was seen. Nor have you been at your penthouse apartment. Where have you been?”

Who the fuck knows this? Who’s been talking to him?

My lawyer jumps in. “This is irrelevant. Mr. Smith travels the country, and the world, frequently. He often doesn’t come to the office for weeks or months at a time. If he told you his whereabouts, it would reveal proprietary business information about potential future clients.”

An excellent, smoothly manufactured lie. Interestingly, many lawyers test high on the psychopathy scale.

The detective opens his folder and slides another picture across the table at me. Baxter Warburton III. He was from Maryland; I deliberately pick victims from around the country to ensure they can’t be traced back to me.

So how the fuck did Sergeant Ruiz link him to me?

“Do you recognize this man?”

Well, the picture sure looks different than the last time that I saw him. For one thing, he still has eyes. I make a show of studying the photograph for a few seconds. “No. Should I?”

“He also disappeared one month ago.” He’s staring at me, searching my face, waiting for those tiny non-verbal cues that would betray a normal man. Thank God I’m far from normal.

“Oh, come on!” my lawyer explodes with impatience. “This is pure comedy now, Sergeant. Are you going to question my client about every disappearance that occurred in the continental United States one month ago? Maybe you’ve got some missing persons cases in Russia you’d like to close too? Afghanistan? China? We’re done here.”

Sergeant Ruiz stands up, and I can feel the frustration radiating off him. “Would you be willing to take a lie detector test?”

“Of course,” I say instantly, at the exact same time my lawyer says, “No.”

A lie detector test is so unreliable that they can’t even be used in court. Evidence gathered by police dogs can be used in court. A judge would believe a German shepherd before he’d believe a lie detector test. And for a psychopath, passing a polygraph is as easy as breathing.

All the things that a polygraph measures—blood pressure, pulse, respiration—go wonky in a psychopath when we’re under pressure. Tests conducted on psychopaths show that our heart rates actually slow down under threat. We became calmer and more focused. We are not like other men.

So, yeah, a polygraph? Bring it.

The detective’s eyes flicker with resentment. He doesn’t believe a word I’m saying, but there’s nothing he can do about it. That cheers me up enormously. I flash him a big, insincere smile.

“We’ll be in touch,” he says coldly.

I smile at him as he picks up his folder and turns to go. “It seems as if you’re drawing your own conclusions, Sergeant. But I tell you what. I’m going to offer a hundred-thousand-dollar reward for anyone who can give information about what happened to Tamara Bennett.”

I’m angry that I have to say that name.

She is Toy, and she is mine.

And somebody is fucking with me. Somebody who’s going to die.

* * *

Toy

I think I’ve gone mad. This is the end. I can’t take much more. This isn’t life. This is worse than death. The loneliness, the boredom. The only thing for me to figure out now is how to kill myself before he can get to me.

I would do anything just to get out of the cell and back up into the house, but he’ll never let me. For the crime of wanting to escape and live my own life, free of chains, he’s sentenced me to an eternal Hell.

I’m so angry at myself I want to rip my own face off. Why didn’t I appreciate what I had before? I think of all the things that Master did for me. He was so soft and gentle when he stroked me. He loved to please me. He let me have power over my own body; he never forced himself on me. He fed me delicious food and took me up to the gym so I’d be healthy. He bathed me in sweet, warm water, lathering me with delicious smelling bubbles. My world was full of color and pleasure when I was with him. He is a god. He can make my body feel anything he wants to. He can drain all color from my existence. I should not have made my lord angry. My lord and master.

I have to think like this, have to believe that Master might be good to me again someday. I keep begging him and begging him. I promise him that I am his Toy and I will live to serve him.

I tell myself again and again that I am Toy and he is Master. I have to believe it with every fiber of my being, if I am ever to have hope of seeing the light again.

More time passes. There’s nothing but the damp smell of mold and the faint light overhead, winking off every night to tell me that yet another day of my life has vanished, breaking my heart every time. When the panic swirls up inside me, I try to calm myself with deep-breathing exercises, but that just makes it worse. Every breath tastes and smells like mildew and wet dirt.

Sometimes the ghost of Sarah’s voice tries to talk to me, to give me strength, but I put my hands over my ears and scream until she stops. She can’t help me; she failed me. It’s her fault that I’m here. It’s my fault. I’m going mad and I can’t remember anything about what I once dreamed of.

Being chained to the floor is a nightmare. I can only take a few steps in any direction, so I can’t even pace inside my cell.

I realize I’m sitting on the bed, rocking back and forth and clawing at my own arms just to feel something. How long have I been doing that? Hours, days?

I have no bed covers with which to hang myself. However, I’ve slowly, secretly dug into the mattress and found a mattress coil I could use. I can slash my wrist with it. I’ll have to move fast and I’ll have to stab hard.

And then the door opens, and Master walks in.

And I think he knew.

He loves to drive me right to the edge of despair and then snatch me back. And the horrible thing is, I can’t fake it. I have to suffer to the point of madness to satisfy him.

I deserve to suffer. I only exist to please him, and I failed at that.

I sink down to my knees and bow my head as he walks over.

“You fucking reek,” he snarls at me. “You smell like you rolled in shit. You’re disgusting.”

“Yes, Master. Sorry, Master.” And I am. I’m sorry about anything that might upset him. Sorry about anything that might make him punish me more.

“Get up, right now.”

I scramble to my feet, hanging my head.

He leads me upstairs to the bathroom and orders me to brush my teeth. I obey instantly. Then he has me wash my crusty, dirty face.

He runs the hot water for me. I climb into the tub eagerly and sink into the bath with a whimper of relief. I am delighted when he cuffs my hands and ankles. I moan with pleasure as he runs the washcloth over my body.

This is real. This is happening. This is all I could ever dream of—me, here in the light and the sweet-smelling air, with Master kneeling between my legs, his strong hands massaging my breasts.

After he bathes me, he strokes the washcloth between my legs, and I moan even louder, desperate to let him know how grateful I am and how much I love what he’s doing to me. I’m not faking it, not in the slightest. The rub of the cloth between the swollen, needy folds of my pussy lips sends shudders of delight rocketing through me. After feeling so little for so long, every sensation is magnified a million times.

He slowly, carefully, shaves me until I’m completely smooth, and my breathing quickens with pleasure as his fingers spread me open for inspection. I am exposed to the air, my eager flesh waiting for him to stroke it back to life. But his hand withdraws.

“What is your name?”

I gaze up at him, so very grateful to him for letting me obey his orders. For letting me please him. “My name is Toy, Master.”

He makes me repeat it ten times, and I do, without hesitation. I’m frantic to keep him happy.

I can’t go back in the cellar.

“May I lick your pussy, Toy?”

“Yes, Master. Please, Master,” I beg. “I love it when you lick me. Please lick my pussy, Master.”

He nods and stands up. After he drains the bathtub, he undoes my cuffs. He hands me a towel to dry myself.

When I’m done, he orders me to dry him, and I do so gratefully, toweling the water off his hard, sculpted body.

Then he wraps a towel around his waist and leads me naked down the hall to his bedroom.

Master let me be in his bedroom. I am so very lucky.

He stands before me and points at the floor. “On your knees.”

Oh yes. I can make him happy now. I have been practicing holding my breath every day in case Master ever decided he wanted me again, and now I can hold my breath for several minutes. Making Master happy is more important than breathing.

I take him in my mouth, and he sinks in all the way, inch by inch, until his pubic hair, fragrant with aromatic soap and male musk, is tickling my nose. I suck his cock eagerly, lovingly, glorying in his groans of pleasure. I drink every drop of his cum like manna from Heaven.

Then he has me lie down on my back on his soft, beautiful bed, and the silky comforter caresses my skin as he places his strong hands on my thighs and spreads them open. He goes down on me, teasing me the way he used to. Tongue swirling, thrusting inside me. The tidal wave of arousal gathers and rises higher and higher. He notes my tortured pants and the quivering of my thighs, and pulls away just in time.

And I give him another piece of my soul.

I look at him, my chest heaving in desire, and I beg. “Please, Master. Please fuck me.”

He smiles at me gently, running his finger down the wet seam of my pussy. Maddeningly light. Do it harder. “Do you really want me to fuck you, Toy?”

“Yes, Master, oh, please. Oh God. Please fuck me.”

His eyes spark with cruelty and malice. “Do you deserve it, Toy?”

My heart drops, and my mouth droops in sorrow. “No, Master.”

“No, you don’t. You made me sick with how dirty you were this morning. When I think about that, I don’t want to fuck you. I want to puke.”

And he gets up and walks away, breaking my heart as I swallow my sobs, because I tried to do what Master wanted, and somehow I failed.

But today he puts the good collar on me, the skinny collar. I am so grateful to Master for putting the skinny collar on me. He gives me soft, beautiful pants and a shirt and bra to wear. He puts the long chain on my ankles.

He takes me to the dining room and lets me eat a real breakfast, with him.

After breakfast, there are tears of gratitude in my eyes when I bow my head respectfully and say, “Thank you, Master.”

His eyes snap with fury. “Did I say that you could speak, Toy?”

I freeze in my seat, the fork falling from my trembling fingers. I am horrified. I am so stupid. Will he put me back in the cell?

He used to let me thank him. I don’t even have that anymore. My escape attempt has thrust me to a new, lower level of Hell. Down in the depths of the cell, I dreamed that someday it would be like it was before—I could thank him, I could fall to the floor and kiss his feet, I could be the eager, grateful slave and he would appreciate it. He would tell me how much he loved it when I obeyed.

Now that will never happen.

I’m shaking all over. I hug myself to try to make myself stop.

I can’t make him angry.

“No, Master,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I spoke without permission, Master.”

I glance up at him, desperate for just a glimpse of the kindness he showed me after he punished me in the past. There is none. His eyes are blinding glacial ice, burning me with their hatred and scorn. “You’re a stupid cow, aren’t you, Toy?”

For some reason, that really hurts. It’s a bleeding cut right across my soul. He’s never called me names before. He used to call me beautiful and strong and worthwhile. Then I ruined it all because I’m an idiot. “Yes, Master, I’m a stupid cow.” Tears leak from my eyes and stream down my face. If he says it, it must be true, but I tried so hard to please him.

“Pants around your ankles. Bend over the table, right now.”

I scramble to obey.

He pulls out his belt and whips my ass so hard that I howl in pain, my legs jerking with each smack of the leather across my flesh.

And I’m grateful for it, for every agonizing slash, for the flaming burn that coats my skin when he’s done. Because at least I’m feeling something. Anything is better than that awful numbness of being chained in a dark room day after day.

After he whips me, he snaps, “Put your pants back on.” His voice is thick with hate.

Master hates me.

Oh God, nobody will ever love me, ever.

I would do anything to make him happy, but it’s too late. I cry hopelessly as he takes me to the library. I go pick up a book and sit with it on my lap, but I don’t read it. I don’t think I want to read anymore, ever again.

There are other worlds nestled between those pages. They will call to me, they will whisper forbidden thoughts, tell me of places I can never see, people I will never meet. They speak of a different life. They might give me wrong ideas. I can’t risk thinking bad thoughts.

And on some level, I know that those books also represent hope. I have no hope now. I will never even be able to please my master. He’s taken that from me. I will just exist, carefully and quietly, and try not to make Master too angry. Sometimes he will give me pleasure, sometimes he will let me please him, and that is all I deserve and all I will have.

After lunchtime, it’s time for me to work out. He takes me to the exercise room, and I put on my exercise shoes. Weeks of being chained have weakened my muscles. After just a few minutes, I stagger and fall off. The contempt on his face burns terror into my heart.

“Please, Master!” I scream. “Please don’t put me back in the cell! I’m so sorry, Master. I’m just a stupid cow, Master. I’m nothing. I’m nobody! I’ll try harder, Master!”

He whips my back with his belt again for begging him, then makes me get back on the treadmill for ten more minutes. My legs are burning, every gulp of air draws white-hot fire into my lungs, but I don’t dare ask him to stop. The room goes blurry, and I desperately force my legs to keep moving. I pray that Master will save me. He doesn’t say a word. He just stands there and watches me struggle to breathe.

Finally, I lose consciousness.

I wake up on a couch in the library. Not my cell. The couch. I cry with relief.

I quickly get up and begin pacing down the long halls so I can start strengthening my muscles, so I can do a better job for him tomorrow. I won’t be weak and stupid again. I won’t disappoint Master again.

He’s a good master. I am just a useless toy. My job is to make him happy. If I can keep him happy, he won’t make me wear the bad collar, and he’ll let me out of the cell during the day.

Every morning, for days on end, after he bathes me, he teases me with his mouth and fingers. I beg him to fuck me. I wail with my need for him. My body heaves with sobs. Often, he makes me bend over the dining room table and spreads me open and laps me until I’m crying and shaking, pulling back just when I’m at the brink. Afterward, he stands there and strokes my skin, not because he wants to please me, but because he wants to draw out the sensual torture. After he teases me, my body seethes with desire for hours, and when the desire slowly, agonizingly recedes, he seems to know instinctively, and he resumes my sensual torment.

He is the source of all pleasure and pain in my life.

I beg him, again and again, to fuck me. And finally, he says yes.