Ava
From there begins a dark descent into a world of pain, like he said, I could never have imagined. As promised, he sets the sadist loose to perfect his craft. I bruise, I bleed, I tear, I scream. I become a canvas for his fury. Sometimes he’s tender when he’s cruel. Other times, he’s filled with a rage that never seems to fade. Sometimes he feeds me pleasure with my pain. Other times, it’s only my pain he wants. So much pain that sometimes I pass out. But he gets smarter, hones his skills, so I don’t slip under anymore. So I just hover at that line.
I become intimately familiar with every item in The Cage. The Beaded Cat, the Rawhide Flogger, the Lexan Rod, the Rattan Cane, the Birch Switch, the Braided Crop, the Signal Whip, the Cattle Prod, the Power Box, the Speculum, the Scalpel, the Hooks, the endless types of clamps, gags and harnesses, and the list goes on. He gets new things he finds online, or sometimes he makes his own. Sometimes he doesn’t even pull from The Cage. Sometimes he uses other things. Like his fist inside me, or a wet rag over my mouth. Sometimes he makes me do things to myself. Those things are always the hardest. Always so hard.
But I use Gavin to help me. He gets me where I needs to go. But there are times when those green eyes fade and all I can focus on is the beast—on the things he does to me, or makes me do. Things that make me want to break, to fall apart and beg for death.
Slowly though, I learn ways to survive. I learn that if I keep myself calm and control my breathing—center it—I can manage the pain better. I learn that when he beats me, no matter the tool, it hurts worse when my body is tight, so I try to focus and keep my muscles soft and loose. I learn to accept the pleasure he grants, knowing it will help when the pain comes. And when it comes—as it always does—I learn to seek out the high, to relish in the endorphins that flood my body, helping me to get to that place…that place where everything fades and I just float. That place he once told me is called ‘subspace.’ But he won’t always let me go there. He likes me aware. He likes me to suffer.
Then there are times when nothing I do helps. Sometimes it’s all wasted efforts, because he knows now. The sadist knows how to hurt, how to inflict pain of the acutest kind, and draw it out, both mentally and physically. He’s perfected it like an art form, and become a true master of his craft.
A master of suffering.
And that’s what I do. I suffer. Then after the suffering, I’m always so out of it, he has to carry me to the mattress, where he lies me down and pets my hair, telling me how beautiful I am, what a good girl I was. ‘Aftercare’ he says it’s called. ‘To bind me to him.’
Over time, it comes to include tending to the places he’s hurt me, gently rubbing antiseptic ointments on my cuts, or salves on my bruises, knowing the faster I heal, the faster he can hurt me there again. And sometimes, if he can’t work out his rage to get to that quiet place, he’ll leave me in the crate, then come back when he’s calmer and put me to bed. And that’s how I always fall asleep, every time, with him sitting next to me, stroking my hair, giving me the tenderness I’ve learned to accept and even come to crave.
Eventually I wake, realize it’s not just a nightmare but my life, then go cleanup for the next time. Then sometimes when I’m ready, he comes for me right away, because he watches me. Always watches. Occasionally, he allows me some time to curl up in the closet, giving me some quiet, but I know it won’t be long before he comes for me again.
Then it starts all over.
The endless cycle.
Suffer.
Sleep.
Shower.
Suffer.
Somewhere along the way, when he was in one of his darker moods, he told me my ranch had been sold, and all my things with it. I think I slipped under that day.
Eventually, the world beyond my cell fades. Everything blurs. Days become weeks, become months, I think. I have no concept of time, no idea if it’s day or night. All I know is the routine and the little marks I make with my fingernails in the far corner of the closet, when I’m huddled up tight, like now.
One hundred and fifty-three marks.
That’s the number of ‘sessions’ he’s had with me. That’s what he’s taken to calling them. And somewhere along the way, I started counting them. I guess to give me some measure of my time here. Not knowing, otherwise, makes it feel endless, like I’m adrift with no end in sight.
But there is no end in sight.
I don’t know why I even make these marks.
It doesn’t matter anyway.
At least he’s safe. And my friends are safe. Ben’s safe. They’re all safe.
That’s all that matters.
Sometimes, when my mind’s working, and I’m curled up here, in my dark little corner, rocking back and forth, I’ll take the precious memories of Gavin, of the horses, of the Hanley’s, and even my father, and sift through them in my mind, savoring them like a piece of meat to a starving soul, then tuck them away good and deep, where the beast can’t get to them.
And sometimes I think of the books that were once mine, of the worlds I used to escape to, and try to escape to them again. Especially that island, the one in The Black Stallion, where it’s just the boy and the horse. I like remembering how they found ways to survive, and how they got rescued.
Then there are times I think of Shayne, but back when he was just a boy. His eyes were dark, even back then, but there was still an innocence about him. That innocence that comes with being a child. He didn’t have much of it, but if I think hard, I can see it in those eyes. And it’s so weird to think of him that way, and I don’t know why I do it. Maybe to make him more human to me, and not just a beast. Because thinking of him as human lets me hold on to the hope that maybe someday he’ll realize what he’s doing is wrong, and maybe he’ll let me go. I know it’s a long shot, but still, it’s something. And something’s better than nothing.
But the hard times—the worst times—are when my mind feels so shattered, that the memories disappear—gone—like they never existed. Those are the times I feel myself being sucked under, to depths so dark I know I’ll never be the same. It already feels like I’m fading. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror anymore because all I see is a ghost. A pale ghost with big, hollow, blue eyes and ribs poking through. In fact, I’ve lost so much weight that the wedding ring fell off during one of the sessions. So now I have a thick jagged scar around that finger instead. Another scar to go with all the others, all mixed in with new bruises and old bruises, new cuts and old cuts, and topped off with a MR cattle brand on my hip.
Even so…
He won’t break me.
He will never break me.
But somehow the words I whisper silently to myself don’t sound so sure anymore. My only comfort is that I know I’m not the only one fading. I’ve seen him…seen the beast from the corner of my eye. He’s fading too. He has the same darkness on his face. The same pale skin. When he’s naked, his ribs are starting to show, kind of like mine, only not as much. He’s still got the muscle though, only now it’s ripped. So ripped I can see all the striations and veins running through, especially when he’s—
The click of the lock sounds and I flinch, and my thoughts scatter. I scramble to my feet and scurry to my mark, where I get on hands and knees, my hair hanging down around me. By the way he walks in, I can tell he’s in one of his quiet moods. That’s when he’s tender. That’s also when he’s at his most cruel.
I wait, filled with all the fear and dread that’s a constant for me now, but there’s another feeling inside me too. A strange feeling. And I’ve been having it for a while—an odd sort of comfort when he’s near me, when I’m with him. Like now, I find myself seeking out his scent, breathing him in as he walks into the room.
Maybe it’s the isolation, the desperate hunger for human contact that has me looking forward to my time with him, no matter how brutal. Or maybe it’s the little mercies he’s been granting lately. A little more pleasure, a little less pain. Or the blanket and pillow I woke up with the other day. Or maybe it’s the aftercare—that time when he’s soft with me, binding me to him, like he said. Whatever it is, it’s making me feel things. Strange things. Things I don’t understand.
The beast moves past me to the bathroom, and when I peek through my hair, I see a box in his arms and know he’s restocking things like toilet paper, soap, shampoo and conditioner, razors, and toothpaste. And stuff to clean with too, and clean towels, and even some creams and medicinal things for when he tends to me, and lotion for me to keep my skin soft. He doesn’t bother with the feminine products anymore, because I’ve only had my period once since I got here, in the very beginning—not because I’m pregnant or anything, but because my body’s changed. At first I wondered how he knew I wouldn’t get pregnant, but he knew I had an implant. I don’t know how he knew that.
He’s back in the room again, walking past me to toss the empty box in the hallway. I sneak another glance and see he’s got part of his hair back in a ponytail again. He’s been doing that lately, so he can see me, work on me, because it’s gotten longer, like mine has. He’s also taken to shaving again too, though from his profile, I can see he’s got a dark stubble today.
When he turns back to the room, I’m already staring at the ground. I hear the creak of The Cage door open and close my eyes, trying not to think about what he might choose.
A moment later, he’s behind me. “Down,” he orders. I lay my shoulders on the cool cement, with my head turned to the side, but leave my hips up, knowing that’s what he wants. He’s silent for a minute, and I know he’s inspecting the cane marks from our last session. They burn when he runs his fingers over them, but I stay quiet. A minute later, he slaps my sex a couple times, to wake up my nerves, then slides three fingers inside me. I gasp when the pleasure floats through my body, savoring it. He’s an expert now, a virtuoso of my flesh, and knows just how to touch me, how to play me.
His fingers move around, inside and out, churning up my arousal, then he drags my wetness up and over my other place—his place. He’s inside me again, opening me up with his fingers. I hear him spit, feel the cool tip of what I know is an anal plug. He pushes it in slowly, his hand on my hip holding me in place. I grunt when it finally slips in, but welcome the sensation. He’s getting me ready. Ready for him. He doesn’t always grant me this. Sometimes he just takes me.
He’s in front of me now. “Knees,” he says.
When I rise up on my knees, my head is where he wants it. At his crotch. He’s still dressed, in his usual black t-shirt and black pants—not sweatpants or jeans, but a loose kind of cotton that he’s taken to wearing. His uniform he calls it. And he’s barefoot. Always barefoot, to make it easy for him in here.
I see the bulge and know what I’m supposed to do. I slide down his pants and underwear just enough to set him free, then take his hardness into my mouth, and suck. And then that feeling is there. That one that has me savoring his taste, relishing his scent.
The beast doesn’t touch me, doesn’t talk to me, doesn’t do anything but take harsh breaths and look down at me with those black eyes, watching while I slide him back and forth between my lips. I flick my tongue along the tip, cup and lick his balls, and stroke him with my hand. All the things he’s taught me. All the things that make him groan, like he does now. I shift the angle so I can get him down deep, into my throat. I don’t gag anymore, something I learned early on. I keep at him for a bit, feeling the fullness of the plug in my bottom, and feeling the ache for a release.
When he’s had enough, and he’s good and wet, he takes himself from me and says, “Elbows.”
I lean down and rest my arms on the ground, bent at the elbows, and wait. He’s behind me again, slowly turning and tugging at the plug, working it back and forth, loosening me up. I find myself yearning for his voice, for the things he’ll say sometimes, about how good I feel, or how hard I make him, or how much he loves my body. But not today. Today he’s silent, a cruelty he likes to wield sometimes.
Even so, my breathing spikes, my body purrs, a slave to its master. He pulls the plug from me, straddles my hips, spits, then his flesh is there, pushing harder and harder until it slips inside. I cry out, the initial breach always so painful, even with the warm up, because he’s just so big. He starts working himself in and out, in and out, every time going deeper and deeper, until he’s all the way in. He lets out a harsh hiss, while I focus hard, focus so hard to tear the pleasure from the pain. But I know it will ease, I know my body will open up for him. He pulls out and gives a good thrust, the weight of him coming down through my bottom, through my legs, and into my knees that slam into the concrete. I shriek and know that’s the pain he wants for me.
He pumps over me while the tears begin to fall, his only touch the flesh that he sinks inside me with hard, building thrusts. My knees bruise with every vicious stroke and I have to concentrate. Concentrate so hard to use the pleasure to override the pain. Because I can’t move my legs, can’t lift my knees. I have to stay exactly as I am. That’s the rule.
His grunts grow louder, as do my cries. But the pleasure is there now, inside me. I still have the pain, and know my knees will be black and blue, but…the way he feels inside me.
He spreads me open with his hands and pounds against me with short grinding jabs, getting himself in good and deep, then comes, quietly. The tears flow freely, not just because of my knees, but because he didn’t grant me a release. Another bit of pain he wants for me.
When he pulls out, I’m left empty and aching. I stay where I am, knowing not to move. He walks off to the bathroom, without a word or a caress. More pain for me.
I hear the faucet running, and he returns a moment later.
“Go clean up,” he says, “I’ll be back for you in a minute.”
He leaves the room, and slowly I rise, my knees so sore I can barely stand. But I make it to the bathroom and tend to myself quickly, ignoring the ghost with puffy red eyes, in the mirror. When I’m done, I go back to my mark and wait on hands and knees once more, this time letting my hands hold most of the weight.
The door clicks and he’s there again. The beast stops in front of me and something falls to the floor. A piece of fabric, I think.
Now he’s kneeling and lifting my chin. I look away, knowing not to meet his eyes. By the silent way he holds my face, I know he’s studying me. “Time to change things up a bit,” he says, and I know he sees the ghost now too. “Put it on.”
He stands over me while I take the clothing and dress with shaky hands. It’s a man’s, white, V-neck t-shirt that hangs to mid-thigh. Probably his. Something he doesn’t wear anymore.
The clothing swallows me up and feels strange. I’ve been naked for so long. It chafes where my skin is broken, but I push past it, my pain tolerance different than what it used to be.
“Follow me,” he says, then strides through the door. I get up and go to follow him, but hesitate at the threshold. Maybe this is a trick. He stops and turns around, waiting. Not a trick. I hurry to catch up, ignoring the ache in my knees, and walk behind him as we go down a hallway. A hallway I walked down a long time ago.
We turn a corner and sunlight streams in through the large windows from the living room. I squint and jerk my arm up, trying to shield my eyes from the daylight. It’s so bright. So bright. So bright, I walk right into a wall and stagger backwards.
His footsteps come in close and I brace, but when he takes my arm, he’s gentle. “This way.”
He’s leading me now. We make another turn, and after a few more blinks, things start to come into focus, and I see we’re in a kitchen. A big kitchen, with a deck just beyond, and a large view of the mountains. The mountains. I gasp. I think some part of me thought I’d never leave that room. And they look so beautiful right now, the sun shining down on them in that lazy way, bringing out a richness in all the greens and golds and browns.
After a moment, I realize he’s watching me, so I look down quickly, not sure what else to do. I hear a screeching sound and turn to see him take a chair from around the dining table and set it so its facing the window, then he motions for me to sit. I do as ordered, that strange feeling inside me again, knowing he placed the chair that way just for me.
He stands behind me now, petting my hair while I look out the window, my eyes trained on the mountains, my ears trained on his voice. “You’ve kept your word, Ava,” he says. “And I know I haven’t made it easy for you. Let’s see if you can keep it up if I give you a little freedom. I’ll tell you first, all the doors to the outside are locked, and there are a couple inside that are locked, too. Anything that’s locked is off-limits, the rest you’re free to roam. But that freedom will come at a price. You’re going to take on a couple chores. First, you’ll start cleaning the house. This is your home now, so you might as well start taking care of it. And second, you’ll take on the cooking. We could both use a decent meal. You’ll make a grocery list and I’ll send Red to the store for you.”
He leans down, places a kiss on my hair, and whispers, “But our sessions will continue. And that will still be your room, Ava. That will always be your room.” He’s standing over me again, quiet now, nothing but the whisper of his hand over my hair.
A monster and his muse.
I stare at the mountains, so vibrant, so magnificent, my eyes soaking up such beauty that it’s almost too much. I’ve been surrounded by greys and blacks for what feels like an eternity. I wonder again if this is a trick. A new way the beast has found to hurt me. Show me this, then take it away for another lifetime. But that’s okay. I’ve learned to cherish what bits of reprieve I’m granted.
“I suppose in some ways, I should thank you,” he says, his voice quiet. “When I look in the mirror, my outsides match my insides now. So I don’t have to pretend anymore. Well, not like I was ever as nice as I was pretty, but…I won’t have to deal with all those silly girls that only saw a handsome face, always trying to get me to notice them, go out with them. Stupid cunts, all of them. They had no idea who I really was.” He leans in close again. “But you knew, didn’t you, Ava? You’ve always known. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been so drawn to you. Always wanted to get inside you, because you’ve always been inside me.”
He places a kiss on my temple, then slides his hand around the back of my neck. “So delicate,” he mutters. “So delicate, I could crush you, with barely any effort. Do you know how hard I had to hold myself back in those early days? I was so angry, Ava. So damn angry. I knew I’d kill you if I wasn’t careful. And how I wanted to kill that fucker that got you first. I was more torn up about that then what he did to my face, can you believe that? Maybe not at first, but…once I got used to my new look, I moved past it. But I could never get over the idea that he had you first.” His hand tightens around my neck, stealing the air. “I waited so damn long for you, Ava. So damn long.” The mountains fade into the background, nothing but a blur as my lungs begin to starve while I try to keep calm, keep my pulse low. He keeps holding and holding, until I feel the life start to slip away, then he loosens and my lungs fill once more.
It’s a game we’ve played before. It’s a game he plays now.
“I’ve been lost to you since that day on the playground,” he says, tightening his hold again. “But I think the time I really got to hurting over you, was that time on the bus. Remember that? I was sitting in the back with Red, like always, when you walked on the bus that first day back at school. You must’ve been what, eleven, I think? And how you’d changed over the summer. I swear the breath emptied out of my lungs watching you walk down the aisle. You’d started combing your hair, and it hung down all silky around your shoulders, just like it does now. And you were wearing that peach dress, that was so worn out that when the morning sun came shining through the windows, it revealed the parts of you beneath. And I swear, Ava, a whimper left my mouth at the sight of you.”
His grip loosens, then he locks his fingers tight around me again and nuzzles my ear. “You were so damn beautiful,” he whispers, “with that pale hair and those shy, blue eyes, and you’re skin had turned all golden from summertime. You were still as small as a breath of fresh air, but you were starting to fill out, starting to become the woman you are now. And everybody else saw it too, didn’t they? All the boys with their mouths hanging open, and all those mean girls with the nasty looks. And I watched you look for a seat up front, knowing you didn’t want to be anywhere near me. But no one would let you sit next to them, would they? You had to walk to the back and slide into a seat just a couple up from where I was. I could see the little beads of sweat on your skin, not from the heat, but because I knew that’s what I did to you. And when you slid into that seat, I watched you press yourself tight against the side, trying to huddle yourself up, knowing I’d come for you. And I did, didn’t I? I couldn’t help myself around you. I could never help myself around you.”
He sighs and leans his head against mine and relaxes his hold, only to cinch it back up. “So I slid up in the seat behind you and hung my arms over the front, letting them dangle by your side. I could tell your breathing changed. Got short and tight. Almost like it is now, but that’s because I’m choking you. But back then, I can’t tell you how much I loved knowing I could affect you like that. I tried talking to you, but, like always, you just ignored me and kept staring out the window. But you still weren’t talking anyways then, were you? Nah, your parents had fucked you up good, by then. So I just hung out with you, smelled your hair, smelled you. That got me needing to be closer to you, so I got up and slid in the seat with you. That’s when you really tensed, wasn’t it? I put my arm around you, like I was making myself at home. I couldn’t help myself, Ava, I swear.”
His fingers slowly let go, then close back around me, my head feeling light and airy. “Then I tried talking to you again, even though I knew you wouldn’t answer. And when I leaned in and tried to touch your cheek, you jerked away. Remember that? That’s when I heard that little fucker laugh. Travis, I think. That was his name. It was like an explosion went off inside me. I was out of the seat and on him—and I was getting big by then too. I got him wedged down on the floor and starting kicking the life out of him. I couldn’t stop. Red was at me, trying to pull me off, but I was like a lion on a carcass. And that’s when I heard it. Everyone heard it. Your voice. Like an angel. Saying, ‘Stop.’ Just barely a whisper, but I heard it. It cut through the haze and I turned around to see you standing in your seat, your little hands clutching the seat in front of you for balance. ‘Stop,’ you said again, so damn soft. It was the prettiest sound I’d ever heard. Once you knew I wasn’t lost on Travis anymore, you sat back down and got to staring out the window again, but I couldn’t do anything but just stand there, looking at you. Finally, I got myself to moving and came in close—so close to you—and I whispered, ‘About time you spoke.’ Remember that?”
My eyelids droop, and I wonder if I’ll pass out this time, but he opens his hand just enough for me to stay awake. “I could hear Travis crying, from the seat over, but all I heard was your voice, saying, ‘Stop,’ over and over again, like some record player that was skipping. I went and sat back down next to Red, laid my head back and closed my eyes, all the while hearing your soft, sweet voice, over and over, and thinking about one goddamn thing—how hard your nipples had been when you were standing. I swear, Ava, from then on, you were like this madness inside my head, I never could get past. I knew then, you would be mine. You would always be mine.
“And I had it all set up too, didn’t I? Then I waited. And waited. And waited. Then you went and did what you did.” He pauses, and my lungs go hungry again.
“But,” he says with a sigh. “I got you to marry me because of all that. And now I have your obedience too. It stings like a motherfucker—let me tell you what—knowing you obey me for him, but it gives me leverage, doesn’t it? Leverage I might of not had with just your ranch, or even those horses and that old man. But for him, you’ll do anything I ask.”
He keeps a hold of my neck, but gives me a breath to keep me conscious, then with his other hand, tugs up my shirt and reaches under to fondle my breast. “You’ll let me touch you.”
When my nipple hardens, he pinches it until I whimper. “Let me hurt you.”
He slides his hand down and shoves it between my legs. “Let me pleasure you.”
I gasp when he sinks his fingers inside me, while his other hand closes tight around my neck once more. The lingering hunger for a release is still there from earlier, but his words are too painful. I can’t get past it, making his pleasure so hard to take. But he keeps at it, moving back and forth inside me, then circling me in that place he knows so well.
“But that will change, Ava,” he says. “I know it will take some time, but I’m a patient man. Or at least I’ve learned to be. And eventually, you’ll do it for me. You’ll do everything for me. Won’t you, my little slave girl.”
I come on his hand, not because I want to, but because he knows how to make me do those things. He puts his fingers in my mouth and I lick them clean like I’m supposed to, his grip still making me dizzy.
He finally lets me go and air floods my lungs. “You’ll clean today. Supplies are under the sink. You can start with the come stain on the chair.”
When he leaves, I’m left staring at the mountains. They don’t look so beautiful anymore.