Liana

 

 

 

It’s been seven days. Four days since I was supposed to show up at work for my last week on the job. Four days since people – someone, anyone – must have noticed that I’m gone.

I’m sitting on my bed, chained, waiting for him, wearing nothing but the lacy lingerie he provided for me – and the red coat. This is what my life has become, what I have become. I’m always waiting for him.

Does anyone miss me? Are they searching for me? Does my mother know? Would she even care?

After all that happened in the week leading up to my kidnapping, one could just as well suspect that I ran away, taking a leave from my normal life because I couldn’t handle all the shit that had happened. It would make sense, and only a person who knew me very well would know that I’d never do such a thing. I’m responsible, organized, very predictable. There’s nothing crazy about me or my life, I never overact or react in extreme ways.

Until now.

As fucked-up as this is, my life has never been as exciting as this past week with him. I’m chained, and confined to this room, locked up and pacing in my cage like a tiger, only allowed to move between the bedroom and the bathroom.

He always leaves the door to the other room locked. I’ve only ever been in there with him present, and every time I came back with marks on my body, my knees shaking – and my pussy dripping. He has been doing a lot of things to me that were not considered punishment, but merely part of my training. He tied me down on the bed once, using the shackles at the bed posts to fasten my hands and legs so tightly that there was absolutely no leeway for me to move. Then he forced a vibrator on my clit, taking orgasm after orgasm from me. He made me count them, just like I was told to count the spankings during my first punishment, and he made me look at him every time I came.

“Remember who is doing this to you,” he kept saying. “I’m doing this to you. Every one of your orgasms is mine.”

On some days, he made me come a dozen times, on other days, he tortured me with intense teasing before withdrawing the permission to come until the next day.

Those days were the worst.

He told me I wasn’t allowed to touch myself when he was gone, but I did it anyway.

Once.

That day I learned that he’s watching me through cameras. I should have realized it, but I didn’t, and when I took a release from my body that was meant to be his, he knew.

He was so angry that I ended up in the attic again, making my worst nightmare come true. I thought he’d throw me in there without anything, making the punishment so much worse than it was during the first night. But for some reason, he allowed me to wear the red coat.

He didn’t leave me in the attic for long, though. I don’t know how long it was in the end, but if I had to guess, I would say it was less than three hours before he dragged me back to my bedroom. I don’t know why he cut the punishment short, especially because he was still furious when he came back for me. But instead of letting me rot in that cold and dusty attic, he decided to add a few blows with a leather flogger while tying me down on the bed.

The pain was not as bad as the unfulfilled need he left me with that night. My hands and ankles were tied to the bed posts, and I winced and curled my body in agony, desperate for the release I was denied.

I think I’m beginning to understand what he means when he speaks of training. This is what he’s talking about: my addiction, my need, my dependence. It’s only been a week, and already I find it hard to imagine how I will ever be able to find pleasure without him.

There’s only one thing that disturbs me even more than this.

He has never fucked me.

He has done everything to me, he has made me come in so many ways, touched me, teased and tortured me. He has seen me in so many states, explored every inch of my body, and uncovered a part of my soul that even I didn’t know existed. He’s peeling away the person I used to be, day after day, touch after touch, climax after climax.

And I haven’t even seen him naked. There were times when he took me to the other room and got so worked up that he took off his shirt, treating me to a view that took away the pain in an instant. He’s so ripped, his body a piece of art work, with clear-cut muscles gracing his abdomen, his tanned skin stretching over stark trenches leading down to his pelvis.

I’ve tried to touch him in my lusty daze, but he never allows me to. It was another kind of punishment, to lay this perfect body in front of my eyes but not allow me to play with it.

He’s inked, too. But his tattoos are so unlike any I’ve ever seen on a man before. When I gawked at the guys lifting at the gym during my very few visits there, I would usually find words or tribal designs, sometimes animals or some kind of symmetric pattern, on their arms.

He, my Master, is sporting none of that. The tattoos covering his chest and parts of his upper arms look more like scratches or wounds, randomly placed on various places around his body. They look like marks from a fight more than a decoration. I wonder what they are all about, but I never dared ask him.

I stopped asking questions a long time ago because I’ve given up on ever hearing any answers. He’s psychotic, a mystery - and I’m growing more and more attached to him with every day I spend in his hands, in his control.

I don’t know if this was his plan all along, but he has changed me. He has brought me to a place where I find myself longing for him more than I long for the freedom from which I’ve been robbed.