Mentor (An Impossible Novella) Page 4

  His growl was harsh and forbidding, and his hands curled around my hips to hold me firmly under the spray. It occurred to me that the cold water must be hitting him, too, but his stance suggested that he held most of his body away from it.

  He’s standing outside the shower.

  I was still blind, but my mind pieced it together.

  My arms wrapped tightly around my chest in an effort to ward off the chill. Agonizing minutes passed while the water slowly grew warmer. By the time it was tepid, my teeth were chattering madly and my entire body was shaking.

  His hands shifted to rub up and down my arms, pressing the warming water into my skin to alleviate the misery of the cold. I leaned into him, craving his heat.

  “I’m doing this because I want to.” The answer was matter-of-fact, almost detached.

  The water had grown as hot as my tears by the time they began trickling down my face. My earlier suspicions were proving to be correct: he wanted my anguish more than my obedience, and he didn’t possess a shred of humanity.

  Once again, I was paying a steep price for a useless answer. Between the punishing cold shower and his intimate touches, this consequence promised a blend of pain and humiliation. I had no doubt he intended to push me to that pathetic state where I looked to him for comfort after his torment.

  I resolved not to give in. Not again.

  My resistance proved to be a pitiful thing.

  His hands were slick as they ran over my skin, returning heat to my frigid flesh. The slippery soap made his calloused palms feel almost glossy as they roved over me. He began innocently enough – well, as innocent as a man violating a naked woman can manage – rubbing my arms, my shoulders. By the time he worked soap into my hair, my skin was tingling from the water’s hot spray and the glorious release of tension.

  How could his touch be so merciful and so ruthless at the same time?

  His fingers tickled down the column of my neck, making me shiver from something other than cold. He moved downward, rubbing his palms in a circular motion as he neared my breasts. I braced myself for abuse, but he skirted around them, smoothing his hands down my sides to wash my stomach. His fingers teased the lower swell of my breasts. They suddenly felt heavier, and my nipples began to throb in an unfamiliar tempo. When he finally grazed his palms over the tightened peaks, I gasped. I only just managed to stop myself from arching into his touch.

  No. My body wasn’t enjoying this treatment. It couldn’t.

  I focused on my hatred. It bloomed white hot in my dark world, its righteous brilliance spreading throughout my being until I shook from my rage rather than in response to his touch.

  I cried out when his hand gripped my sex hard, his disapproving growl vibrating against my skin. He could read me all too easily.

  The fear that arose in response to that knowledge shattered my concentration, and I forgot my hatred. All that existed was the shock of his hand on the place that had never been touched so intimately, not even by me.

  His fingers roughly explored my folds, rubbing soap between them. I wasn’t entire sure if the slickness there was from the water that coursed down my body. I didn’t dare contemplate what else it might be.

  In my blindness, the humiliation of being washed and the shock of violation overwhelmed all thought.

  My mind broke.

  He tenderly pulled my sobbing body against his, holding me as the water cascaded over both of us. The thin material of his t-shirt was a barely perceptible barrier between us. It was sodden, plastered to him like a second skin. My body had never been so closely molded to a man’s. The unfamiliarity, the foreignness of it all, only further pushed me into mindless despair.

  Eventually, he deemed that I was thoroughly clean. He wrapped a soft, fluffy towel around me, hugging me to his chest as he carried me back to my bed.

  I didn’t even try to fight him when he secured my restraints around my wrists.

  My bed. My restraints.

  I shuddered at my mind’s acceptance of my prison.

  He gently removed the sodden blindfold, but my eyes didn’t have time to adjust to the light before he tied a dry strip of cloth around my head.

  Relief warred with regret at my prolonged blindness. Being trapped in the dark was hastening my descent into madness. I had no sense of time, no perception of the world around me.

  But sight would mean seeing his face, so beautiful and yet so fearsome. Would his eyes shine gold or flash red as he looked down upon my nakedness?

  I didn’t want to know.

  His Journal

  May 2, 1978

  It’s been ten days since she asked her last question. When I first found her to be so sweetly obedient, I feared I would have to dispose of her sooner than I had wished. If she had truly broken so quickly, I would have grown bored of her much faster.

  When I realized it was a ploy to win my trust, I was pleased. Possibly even thrilled. I can’t be sure. I’ve never been thrilled before. Whatever it was, I enjoyed it immensely.

  I can’t decide whether I’m happy or disappointed that she hasn’t asked another question since then. Emotions are unfamiliar and often seem interchangeable for me. They are all so visceral. Now that I hold her life in my hands, I have that glorious feeling of being alive all the time.

  I can say with certainty that I am more than satisfied at her resilience. She won’t break any time soon. In a way, I don’t really want her to. I might have to find a new toy if she can no longer fulfill my needs.

  But for now, she only stokes my need, this lust that had always eluded me until I took her. I promised that I wouldn’t rape her, and I’ll stick to my word. Forcing her to ask me to fuck her will make it worth the wait. I’ve learned to slake myself to thoughts of her body writhing beneath me, her cries giving voice to the mix of pleasure and pain that I give her. One day, she won’t know the difference between the two, just as I can hardly discern between joy and anger. My darkness will taint her, twist her into something like me. She’ll be truly broken.

  I’m not sure if I crave or dread the day when that will happen. It might just be the day I have to kill her.

  Chapter 4

  Kathleen

  Why me?

  What would Mary Richards do?

  I laughed hollowly into the darkness. My old mantra seemed as useless as my fettered arms. Mary Richards had faced being a single career woman in a male-dominated field. She had never dealt with imprisonment and psychological torture.

  For so many years, she had been my heroine. She was an independent woman who didn’t need a man to create a happy, successful life for herself. When I first saw The Mary Tyler Moore Show at the age of fourteen, I found my role model.

  Now, I had replayed every episode in my head. For a while, the Technicolor images that filled my mind helped to stave off the delirium brought on by the ever-present, crushing darkness. But joy soon gave way to obsession as I clung to the stories, playing them again and again. Then obsession had given way to anger and resentment, and I couldn’t even bear to think one verse of Sonny Curtis’ “Love is All Around.”

  I wasn’t gonna make it after all.

  The life I had dreamed of having in Chicago – a career in advertising and a one-bedroom apartment – was so far from my current reality that it was painful to think about.

  I hadn’t been allowed the luxury of sight in… Well, I didn’t know how long. It felt like years, but it might have been days.

  Every time I had an opportunity to glimpse him, I had wasted it out of fear. I didn’t want to look up into those terrifying, mesmerizing eyes. I had precious seconds to view the world around me when He changed out my sodden blindfold for a dry one after he washed me.

  In truth, the time it took him to complete that task was probably too brief for my eyes to adjust. Even the dim light burned through my eyelids in those few heartbeats when I might have gazed upon him.

  Him, He. I was beginning to think of him as the only man, the only real thing in the world.
He didn’t have a name, but I had to have some way of thinking of him. And I refused to think of him as Master, even though I used the honorific title when He allowed me to speak a few precious words.

  At first, my voice had been strong. I spoke to myself for long periods of time in order to cut through the painful silence. But I was slowly growing to hate the sound of my own voice. What good was talking if there was no one there to answer? And I didn’t dare ask questions when He came to me. Conversation was impossible when the exchanges between us only allowed a brief “Yes, Master” or “No, Master” on my part. Now, moving my tongue to shape even those simple words was becoming difficult.

  He never allowed me to see his face. Even though I couldn’t physically read his emotions, I was beginning to fear that He was becoming bored with me.

  He brought food and water to me intermittently. I could never tell if ages or no time at all had passed between those times. We followed what was now a familiar pattern: I accepted sustenance from his hand only, and He washed me. Although he touched my bare skin, he didn’t violate me again; after that first time, he avoided my breasts and my sex. If He did touch them, it was a detached, dutiful thing.

  I was horrified to realize that having his hands on me didn’t really bother me anymore. I was completely dependent on him for every necessity, and when reduced to basic survival imperatives, my mind turned more primal. It was a struggle to maintain lucidity, to think of anything other than when He would come back, when I would feel human contact and hear a voice that was not my own.

  I’m not gonna make it after all.

  That single, small, defeatist thought jolted my brain back to life. I had never before allowed myself to succumb to despair. I always had a plan, was always determined to achieve my goals, no matter how hard I had to work to attain them.

  It was time to speak again. It was time to ask another question.

  Forming complex, coherent thoughts was a struggle at first, but I reached deep within myself, finding the steely determination that had always resided within me. I was a survivor, and I wasn’t going to give in to the monster who reveled in tormenting me.

  I realized that neither of us thought of the other as completely human. In my mind, he was a monster, and in his mind, I was a plaything. If I could find a way to make him see me as more than that, maybe He would begin to feel guilty about what he was doing to me. If I was a real person in his eyes, surely I could draw compassion out of him.

  My mind combed through the various questions I could ask in order to get what I wanted. I had to choose carefully. All of his answers so far had proven useless, and they had cost me dearly.

  He was already robbing me of my sanity, of my will to fight. What more could He take from me?

  So many things, a cruel, cynical voice whispered through my consciousness.

  Terrible consequences that He might inflict upon me threatened to consume my thoughts. I shoved them back. All I could focus on was my question. I couldn’t forget my purpose or allow him to frighten me into silence. He hadn’t hurt me physically since I had paid the price for asking who He was, but the emotional torment of this sensory deprivation was so much worse. I would almost welcome that pain.

  At least I would feel something. Something other than his tender touches that I was coming to crave in a most perverse way. If He didn’t treat me with his sadistic brand of kindness, I might have been able to hold on to my hatred in order to resist him.

  My question became a litany in my head. I couldn’t let go of it; I couldn’t fall into thoughts of him. That path led to madness.

  When the door creaked open, my body tensed in nervous anticipation. His footsteps paused on the stairs. I hadn’t shown any signs of resistance in a long time.

  His low chuckle was one of pleasure, and He descended the stairs more quickly than usual, as though he was eager to get to me.

  The bed dipped beside me as He settled himself down onto it, but he didn’t reach for my restraints. That was usually the first thing He did before gathering me up in his arms and feeding me. I realized that I had done something to break our holding pattern, and a chill swept through me.

  As much as I hated the routine that was carefully designed to drive me to madness, fear of the unknown welled up, stronger than I could ever recall.

  I jumped when He gently traced the line of my cheekbone.

  “What are you thinking, pet?” His voice held an edge of anticipation that mirrored my own, only where mine was fearful, his was eager. My gut clenched at the sound.

  “Why…” I took a deep breath to steel my resolve. I wouldn’t back down now.

  And a sick part of me was vaguely satisfied that He was pleased with me. My recognition of that fact was the final push I needed to follow through with my plan which would help me retain my sanity. It might even secure my freedom.

  “Why me?” My voice was hoarse from disuse, but my question was discernable. All of my plotting had brought me to those two simple words. Surely a blunt question warranted a blunt answer. I hoped to compel his honesty by eliciting an automatic response.

  My heart sank when He didn’t answer immediately.

  Oh, god. This was how it had been before. He prepared me for whatever torture he had in mind, and then he provided the answer.

  Would this one be as useless as the rest?

  My body began to tremble.

  His thumbs hooked below the lower edge of the blindfold, and He gently eased it up over my brow. I scrunched my eyes closed, a small sound of discomfort working its way up my throat. I feared the pain of the light, and I feared to look upon his beautiful, disgusting features.

  The light forcing its way through my eyelids dimmed, and his fingers stroked my cheek in that cruelly soothing motion. Tentatively, I eased my eyes open to slits. He was shading my eyes with his hand, protecting me from the harsh light until my vision could adjust.

  Even the sight of his palm was breathtaking. It had been so long since I had seen anything. My eyes greedily roved over the lines etched upon it, taking note of the callouses at the base of each of his fingers.

  Suddenly, I wondered what He did to get those callouses. Thus far, I had done my best to ignore the sensation of their roughness against my skin, but now they intrigued me. I knew nothing about this man who held me hostage. Understanding him might be the key to my freedom. But how could I discover anything about him if I couldn’t ask questions?

  Even now, I regretted the simple question I had just asked. I could tell from his demeanor that nothing good would come of it. Still, I foolishly held my breath in the hopes that He might say something of use.

  When I finally blinked away the last of the pain from my burning eyes, he slowly withdrew his hand from above my eyes. For a moment, He looked glorious; He was my fallen angel.

  Then horrific words dripped from his full lips, and the illusion of perfection was shattered.

  “You want to know why I chose you? I took you because you were convenient.”

  Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes to drip down into my hair, and I turned my face away from him.

  Useless. What would He make me surrender to him this time? What would He take from me in exchange for that answer? It didn’t help me in any way; it didn’t sway him, and it didn’t yield any further information about him.

  No. That was wrong. I just didn’t want to accept what I had learned about him.

  He was more than simply callous or selfish; He was heartless. The monster had no sense of empathy or compassion. It was as though he had no understanding of human emotion at all.

  He gave me a lopsided smile, but it was nothing more than a veneer of happiness. The red glint in his eyes let me know that it was only a twisted form of pleasure. Even a beast could feel pleasure, a base satisfaction.

  He lightly touched my breast in a mockery of a lover’s caress.

  “Now. Let’s find out what makes you scream, pet.” He said the words softly, almost tenderly. This was what he truly wanted
: not my obedience, but my agony.

  My defiance reared its head. Trapped by my restraints, there was nothing I could do to fight him physically. I quelled the urge to jerk wildly against my bonds, to allow crushing fear to overwhelm my mind. My mind was my only weapon, and I wouldn’t give it up so easily.

  Lifting my chin, I stared directly into his glowing amber eyes.

  I will not scream for him. Not this time.

  My challenging glare elicited a grin from my tormentor. He chuckled down at me almost affectionately.

  “You won’t break any time soon, will you?” He tapped his finger against my forehead. “My clever pet.”

  The words made my stomach turn, but I realized that I had learned something else about him. He might have taken me because I was convenient, but I was important to him in some capacity. If I didn’t know better, I would say he was growing… fond of me.

  If He enjoyed my defiance, then I would give it to him. That suited my tastes just fine. If he truly was feeling some affection for me, I needed to foster that. If he cared, he might feel guilty about what he was doing to me. He might let me go.

  Suddenly, He grabbed my breasts with punishing force. I bit my tongue to keep from crying out. I was becoming immune to the shame of his touch upon my naked flesh, but he hadn’t truly hurt me since I had asked him why he was doing this to me.

  “Has anyone ever touched you here, pet?” His long drawl was a low rumble. He released one of my breasts, and his hand closed roughly around my sex. “How about here?”

  I might have been fooling myself, but I imagined that his grip was a touch possessive. Another point in my favor.

  Despite the tiny spark of triumph within me, my cheeks flamed with my embarrassment. When He had washed me, his touches had been impersonal. This was entirely different. He wanted to know my secrets. He wanted to take ownership of these forbidden parts of me.