Chapter Twenty-one
Toy
I think I’ve been here a couple of months now, but it could have been longer. Maybe three or four months?
I thought that changing for Master would make him happy, but I have failed somehow.
He has grown cold and withdrawn, and he says cruel, horrible things to me every day. I deserve them, but I also remember that he wasn’t always like this. When I was less obedient, when I thought about escaping and fought back, there were moments of kindness. Now his words are sharper than knives and his looks wither my soul.
I am very angry with myself for failing. I wonder what I could do differently. How I could be better.
I think I’m doing everything I can. I spend most of my time keeping my mind blank, just waiting for orders. I no longer worry about my own comfort or safety—the only thing that’s important is pleasing Master.
I am gratified by how much pain I can endure for him. Punishments that once would have had me panicked and screaming and begging, I now suffer through without a peep. I have come to crave the whipping and the paddling, because they give me a chance to prove my devotion. He doesn’t seem to notice how high my pain tolerance is now, which is devastating, because all I want to do is make him proud of me.
I accept that he’s killed me. He lied to me when he said he wouldn’t kill me. He killed Tamara. The girl who loved the smiles on people’s faces, and coffeeshops, and books, and music; the girl who dreamed about someday making a difference…she’s dead. I can’t be myself anymore, because I can’t stand to be locked up in that room alone anymore. I need Master. I am alone in the world without him. Sarah doesn’t visit me in my head anymore, and neither does the dark tormenting voice that blamed me for destroying my mother.
I thought I was making a difference in the world, and now I know that I failed at that. I never touched a single soul out there.
I should have known. Didn’t those lonely days in the group home teach me anything? A year of looking up hopefully every time a car pulled into the driveway, expecting my mother, and having my heart break every single time a stranger emerged. If my own mother didn’t care about my existence, why would anybody else?
Freedom is pointless. Fighting is pointless. If Master freed me, where would I go? What difference would it make if I were free, with nobody to be happy at my return?
Master is the only thing in the universe that matters. He is the universe.
So I have to be Toy.
But that’s not what he wants from me either.
When he gives me permission to ask him questions, I try to ask him questions that will make him happy, like, “How can I please you, Master?”
But that makes him angry.
He is withdrawing more and more.
And then it happens. In the bath in the morning, after he washes me, he hands me the cloth and tells me to wash myself between my legs. He no longer makes me beg him to kiss my pussy—he doesn’t ask at all. He stops having sex with me.
A darkness fills me, a whispering terror of what’s to come. Master has grown tired of me. He will kill me soon, and…replace me, maybe? God help the next girl.
That is a terrible thought, a treacherous thought. Master is good and Master gives pleasure and is merciful whenever I deserve it.
But I can’t stop the thought. If I had the chance and could kill Master to save the next girl, would I?
Maybe.
Finally, after days and days go by, he leads me through a door that’s never opened before, and I know it’s the end. He’s grown weary of me and he’s going to kill me. I am not afraid, just numb and resigned. I glide behind him in a dream, wondering where I’ll go after I die.
It will have to be somewhere better than this.
These rebellious thoughts are coming into my head more and more these days, and they are dangerous. Maybe that’s why he’s going to kill me. Because he can read my mind and he knows that my control is starting to slip.
It’s starting to slip because of him. Because nothing I do is ever, ever good enough for him, because even complete surrender and submission has not satisfied him.
But when he takes me into a room, it’s not what I expected. Visions of a butcher’s table and a row of knives swam through my head…not this.
It’s a room set up for martial arts and sparring. There are punching bags hanging from the walls. There are nunchucks and throwing stars and things I don’t recognize.
He takes off my collar and ankle chains. He points to cubicles that hold clothing, and directs me to put on an outfit of baggy pants, a T-shirt, and sneakers.
“I’m going to teach you self-defense,” he says to me. “Just think, if you get good enough someday, you could kill me and free yourself.” There’s a cruel, challenging glint in his gaze.
I’ll never be that good, I think to myself in despair. And that’s what he intended when he said it. My despair.
He’s trying to make me angry.
“You may reply, Toy.”
“Thank you, Master. I will never be that good, Master.”
“True, unfortunately.” There’s an odd weariness lacing his voice. What does he mean by that? Does he want to die? Once we’re dressed, he leads me over to the mat.
“The style of combat I’ll be teaching you is Krav Maga. It means ‘Contact Combat’ in Hebrew. It was developed by a Jewish man during the rise of the Nazis, and meant to very quickly enable your average civilian to defend themselves in a street-fight. It’s the primary self-defense system taught to the Israeli army, and due to its effectiveness, it’s spread worldwide. Although there are elements of boxing in it, along with many other self-defense systems, it’s not boxing. You’re not going to stand there trading blows until you tire out or your opponent lands a hit that knocks you senseless. The purpose of Krav Maga is to learn to quickly assess the threat, deliver a devastating strike, and get the hell away.”
I nod dully.
He begins teaching me some basic principles. I cautiously go through the motions, terrified that if I try too hard, if I actually hurt him or resist him, I will suffer the consequences. About twenty minutes in, he slaps me in the face so hard I stagger.
“You didn’t even try to block that!” he snaps at me. “If you don’t start putting some effort in, you’ll be strapped down hand and foot in your cell again, with a hood on your head. Is that what you want?”
Panic surges through me, lending me strength. Not the cell. Not the cell. I can’t go back there, ever. Oh God. I’ll die. Without a word of reply, I hook my foot behind his leg in an attempt at a take-down. He moves his leg out of the way and dances back, grinning. I freeze in terror and my heart leaps into my mouth. Am I going back into my cell? My mind starts racing, trying to come up with ways to make him kill me.
“Much better,” he says, his eyes glowing with malice. “During our training sessions, you may do your very best to hit me, knock me out, disable me in any way you can, without consequence.”
The rest of the session passes quickly. Afterward, he takes me into the bathroom and watches me while I bathe. He doesn’t even bother to climb in with me.
I know why he’s started the sparring sessions. It’s because I’ve become boring, and he wants to see at least some spark of life in me. But I have no other choice. If I fight him at all, his punishments are so terrible I can’t survive them.
We go into the room day after day, and spend a couple of hours in there instead of in his gym. The weeks drag by, and I get better each day, but I never come close to being able to disable him, and I never will. After all, he’s the one teaching me. There’s also the fact that I’m 5’5” and about a hundred and twenty pounds, and he’s 6’3” and about two hundred pounds of solid muscle. And he’s been training for a very, very long time. And he’s just naturally faster, stronger, and more lethal than most people.
I enjoy the sparring, but I try not to. I don’t want to feel anything anymore. I want to stay numb until the day I die.
I don’t think it’s going to be enough for him. It doesn’t seem to reawaken his interest in me. And he said that he won’t ever let me go, so what will happen if he just gets bored? Will he break his promise and kill me, or just lock me back in my prison cell and forget me, which would be worse?
He doesn’t have sex with me anymore. I bathe myself while he watches. Often, his attention wanders as I’m bathing. And I miss the sex. I loved feeling his hands on me, his mouth. I loved his cock inside me. He was an amazing, fantastic lover, incredibly attentive. And I loved how much he loved being with me. The whole time that we were screwing, I felt powerful and sexy and desired. His body was incredibly responsive, he loved my touch and everything I did to him.
He gave me multiple orgasms every time we were together. Every single time. And now he acts as if he can’t stand the sight of me.
I keep practicing my breathing sessions every day in case someday he wants me to suck his cock again, but he never does.
One day, as I’m sitting in the lounge, wearing the good collar and the good ankle chains and staring at books I’ll never read, he strolls in. I glance up at him quickly. He’s so heartbreakingly beautiful. I love to look at him, to caress the sculpted planes of his face with my eyes. I’m not allowed to touch him with my hands.
“I have to leave overnight, Toy,” he says. I freeze. He hasn’t done that since I can remember. What will it mean for me?
“Yes, Master,” I whisper.
“I can leave you in your cell, or I can chain you in the playroom, Toy. Which one do you prefer?”
My heart constricts with panic. Not the cell. The darkness, the dank smell, the endless days, my screams echoing off the walls…
“In the playroom, Master.”
He scowls at me.
“Are you going to thank me for letting you have a choice, Toy?”
I hunch my shoulders defensively. “You punish me for speaking to you without permission, Master. I am not allowed to thank you unless you request it.”
His gaze flickers in annoyance. But that was Master’s rule! I am obeying his rules!
Nothing I do satisfies him. I feel a surge of frustration, and I stare at the floor to hide my face in case he notices. But he doesn’t. Maybe he doesn’t care anymore.
Silently, he leads me to the playroom and chains me up by a grate in the floor.
“Elizabeth will bring your food, Toy.”
“Thank you, Master.”
His cold graze travels over me, icing my skin. “I could leave you with entertainment, but I think it’s a good time to remind you of the fact that the only pleasure in your life comes from me. If I am not here, you don’t deserve any pleasure. My absence equals pain.” And he takes off the good collar and returns a minute later with the very thick collar, which I deserve because I have failed to make my master happy. He wraps it around my neck and fastens it.
He also sets down a roll of toilet paper and wipes next to me, and a blanket and pillow. Master is very kind. He did not have to give me those things. It is important for me to think about how good Master is to me.
He leaves with a look of annoyance pinching his perfect brow. He shuts the door behind him, and I am alone in a room full of whips and dildos, staring at the white walls.
I look at the toilet paper and wipes and the blanket and pillow. I feel the thick, choking collar which will force me to stare straight ahead until Master chooses to take it off me. My neck and shoulders and back will become cramped and painful, and soon I will be able to think of nothing else.
I am failing to feel grateful. I can’t make myself do it.
For the first time in a long time, I am starting to feel something other than a desperate desire to please him.
I feel angry.
I gave up everything.
I sacrificed my identity. My dreams. My personality. Everything to keep him happy.
And now he’s mad at me, disappointed with me, for following the rules that he created.
I struggle to regain the safe dullness that I’ve felt for the last…weeks, months? And I’m sick at the thought of what will happen to me when I fail.