Joseph

 

 

 

This must be the best one yet. Her horror seems so real, so raw and natural. It’s easy to forget that most of this is all an act. Her widened eyes when she gazes through the room speak of nothing but fear and confusion, and they are set in the most beautiful face I have ever had in my house.

She looks younger than I expected, way younger. I usually order them slightly older than me, because that is what I typically go for. Older women with experience, mature enough to make responsible decisions, but still physically firm and young enough to be attractive and keep my attention. Her file said that she was in her early thirties, but her face looks like that of a girl in her early twenties.

It’s been less than ten minutes since I placed her unconscious body on the floor, already coming to know the feel of her in my arms as I carried her up the stairs from the car. She is shorter than I expected, and not very heavy. I did nothing but bring her up here and lay her down on the floor. While I’m haunted by a wide range of twisted thoughts and ideas, necrophilia is not among them. I take no joy in abusing her body in this helpless state.

I need her awake to fully enjoy her. And I want to be there with her to watch her when she opens her eyes for the first time.

My heart skipped a beat when a subtle motion and an even fainter moan suggested she was about to regain consciousness. The drug only acts for a very limited time, but it’s hard to shake it off completely right away. Even with that knowledge, it was a joy to watch her struggle as she slowly comes to herself and fights to get the scarf off of her face.

I held my breath when she finally revealed that face I have been so eager to see. My eyes are fixated on her every breath as she takes in her surroundings for the first time, her eyes locked on the ceiling above her in a blank stare as her scattered mind tries to make sense of her situation. Even when they know this will happen, they are still shocked to find themselves actually here. Nothing can prepare a person for this, nothing. They only understand after waking up in a dark attic, lying on the floor with nothing but the things they had with them when I took them.

Just as required, she is dressed up beneath the red fur coat, wearing a dark ladies’ suit with a tight-fitting skirt that is driving me crazy. The protocol dictates that they wear stockings underneath that skirt, and I can’t wait to see them as I push up her skirt for the very first time.

Soon.

It only takes her a few moments to fully regain consciousness, and she’s back with a bang when she sees me sitting next to her. I suppress a chuckle as she jumps up like a frightened deer and scuttles away from me until she can go no further.

And then she concludes our first encounter with the perfect question.

“Who are you?”

Next to “Where am I?”, this must be the most often posed question for a victim to ask their kidnapper after waking up from a drug-induced slumber. What a good girl she is, playing the part to perfection.

The girls are instructed to act as if this really happened out of nowhere, unexpectedly. Not all of them stick to protocol, though. More than once I’ve had to put them back into place, inflicting enough terror to make them realize that this is not a joke. It’s not a silly game between lovers who got bored of each other in the bedroom. There is no breaking character, no escaping, no joking when you forget the lines. None of that.

This one, Ruby, appears to understand that. I like her already, despite her earlier misconduct. My slave training follows the carrot-and-stick policy: every misstep will be followed up with punishment, while compliance will be met with a treat.

The fear written all over her young face turns to panic when I stand up and rise to stand above her, my eyes never leaving the shivering and scared little person she has turned into.

“Beautiful,” I say. “Perfect.”

They are never able to appreciate a compliment when they first enter this dark world of captivity under my roof. Ruby, just like so many before her, only furrows her eyebrows, her tiny nose wrinkling as if she’s confronted with an unpleasant smell.

“You will call me Master,” I announce. “Do you understand?”

Her eyes widen with a new wave of terror.

“What?” she gasps. “Where am I? What is this?”

Her voice is trembling, and her face turning into a grimace as if she’s about to cry.

She’s brilliant.

“Tell me you understand,” I tell her. “You will call me Master. Understand?”

A horrified gasp escapes her lips when I approach closer, taking only one single step.

“Why would I…? Who the hell are you?!” she hisses at me.

Okay, now she’s taking it too far. I want to put her in her place, but I can’t break character either. I won’t remind her of the contract she signed, the contract that clearly states she’s giving up any freedom and free will while she’s my captive. That contract also stated how she is to address me, and I don’t feel like spelling it out to her again.

I dart forward, too quickly for her to react before I get my hands on her. She shrieks in horror when I pin her against the wall she’s been leaning up against, grabbing her by the throat without actually choking her, and using my other hand to keep her held in place. She’s too shocked to fight back, her terrified eyes fixating on me as she comes to terms with the fact that there is nothing she can do to escape my grip.

“Do you understand?” I repeat my question, emphasizing every word.

She whimpers and her lower lip begins to tremble, her eyes watering with despair.

This I can work with. Raw terror and desperation. She’s good.

I tighten my grip around her throat, pushing her further back against the wall, while moving my face so close to hers that I can feel her anxious breath on my skin.

“Yes,” she breathes. “Yes, yes, yes.”

She hesitates, leaving a moment for the first of many tears to roll down her delicate cheek.

“Yes, Master,” she adds.

I smile at her.

“Good girl.”