Mentor (An Impossible Novella) Page 8

  I recognized that I was going insane.

  “You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met.” A man who had loved me once said that. That was a long time ago, in another lifetime.

  My hollow laugh echoed in the darkness. I wasn’t strong. I hadn’t fought. Not really. I had just laid here and accepted abuse.

  I had fought the crushing power of abuse before I was taken. I had overcome it with my mind; my body hadn’t been strong enough to fight off my father’s brute strength. What could a child do against a grown man?

  I had thought that my mind would see me through this new torment. I fell back into old practices, relying on my wits to see me through.

  But my captor was too intelligent. Possibly more intelligent than me. That thought rankled, but it was true. I had studied hard to gather my knowledge, but He seemed to wield an innate genius for manipulation.

  My father had been stupid, uneducated. My mind had been capable of seeing me through his torment.

  But Him… My mind was pathetic in comparison to His. He was always so far ahead that my efforts to resist Him were turned against me. He did it so easily, I might as well have been a child.

  But I wasn’t a child. Not anymore. I may not have been strong enough to fight my father, but I was a woman now. The strength of my captor’s muscles had intimidated me from the very beginning, stifling thoughts of physical resistance.

  Now, it seemed the only course of action available to me. He might anticipate my questions, my emotional responses, but He wouldn’t be prepared for me to actually fight Him.

  The element of surprise. It was all I had left.

  Can I escape? It was a silent question, one I would never ask aloud. I wasn’t about to ask for his permission. I knew what his answer would be. His No, pet would come out with an amused lilt.

  I was exhausted from the efforts of formulating thoughts, especially ones of resistance. The darkness crept in, blanketing my mind to silence once again.

  When He finally came to me, I struggled to recall my plan. The rush of pleasure elicited by his first touch upon my cheek was enough to draw forth the echo of my disgust. I clung to it, desperate to remember my plan.

  He noticed the change in my demeanor.

  “Did my pet want to ask her Master a question?” His tone was perversely hopeful.

  I shook my head. “No, Master.”

  Abruptly, He ripped the blindfold from my eyes. His face was twisted into a scowl, and I shrank back into the mattress.

  “What have I told you about lying to me?” He demanded angrily.

  “I…” I gasped. “I’m not lying, Master. I don’t want to ask a question.”

  His scowl faded to a frown as He considered me. He cocked his head, a furrow forming in his perfectly smooth brow.

  “No, you’re not lying,” He allowed after a long minute. “I won’t force you to ask now. You’ll say it when you’re ready.”

  I’ll never say it. Not to You. I won’t ask if You’ll allow me to escape.

  “Thank you, Master,” I said instead.

  The lines of his face were taut with his puzzlement when He pulled the blindfold back over my eyes. Despite his evident frustration, He was as tender as ever when He uncuffed me and fed me.

  Not now. Not yet.

  It was too soon. I couldn’t hope to fight Him while He held me in his arms. He wouldn’t fully release my body until He placed me in the shower.

  As He carried me to the bathroom, I began to tremble. His arms tightened around me, and his low growl gave voice to his irritation with my reticence. It must be driving Him crazy that I was keeping something from Him. He wasn’t in control.

  I’m driving Him crazy? It took effort to hold in my mad giggle. If only that were true.

  My feet hit the smooth porcelain of the shower.

  Now!

  I wrenched off the blindfold before He could stop me. I needed my sight.

  His eyes had half a second to widen in shock, and I took advantage of his moment of inaction. I knew a man’s weakest point.

  I brought my knee up sharply, cringing as it drove into his groin. He gasped, clutching himself as He doubled over.

  I skirted around Him, forcing my disused leg muscles to steady beneath me. I almost made it to the bottom of the stairs when his furious roar echoed through the small bathroom. His feet pounded behind me.

  Get to the stairs! Get to the stairs!

  I was so close. So close-

  My scalp screamed when his fingers closed in my hair, jerking me away from freedom.

  “No!” I managed to cry out my anguish just before my back hit the wall. My skull cracked against the concrete blocks. My vision went black for the space of a second, and when sight returned, I was sprawled on the floor. His rage slammed down on me from where He towered over me.

  Memory kicked in.

  Don’t hurt me, Daddy. Please don’t hurt me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  My body curled into a ball, just as it had done when I was a child. My knees pressed against my chest, and my hands braced over my head, straining to protect my most vulnerable areas from his punishing blows.

  I flinched and whimpered at the first contact. It took me a heartbeat to process that his hands were gently encircling my wrists, slowly prying my hands away from my face. I squeezed my eyes shut, terrified to witness the sight of his fist coming at me with enough force to crunch my bones.

  “Open your eyes, pet.” I was shocked at the strain in his voice.

  My ingrained obedience overrode my fear. When I looked up into his eyes, the depth of pain I found in them bled into me, seeping through my own eyes to sink into my soul.

  “I would never hurt you.” His lips pursed as He recognized his lie. “I would never beat you. Not like that. Not like he-” He stopped abruptly. The shake of his head was sharp with anger, but I sensed it wasn’t directed at me.

  His red-gold glare found me again, but through the fury I saw a deep sense of betrayal. It was written in the lines around his eyes and the sad twist of his lips. Suddenly, He appeared younger, more vulnerable, than He ever had. But somehow He also appeared years older, more careworn.

  “I’m sorry, Master,” I heard myself whisper. Without a thought, I reached for Him. My fingers gently wiped away the tautness around his mouth, easing his pained expression.

  “I don’t want you to be scared of me, pet. At least, not in that way.” His whispered words stunned me.

  He cares.

  The warmth that the thought elicited was heat, a consuming inferno. It burned through my lingering disgust, my last vestiges of resistance.

  I recognized our shared pain, and the betrayal in his eyes cut at me like a knife in my heart.

  He knows. He understands. Someone hurt Him, too.

  How could I bring Him more pain than He had already known?

  “I’m sorry, Master,” I repeated.

  He brushed my sweat-dampened hair back from my forehead. “Don’t do that again. I might lose control, and I couldn’t bear it if-” He cut himself off again, his expression going blank.

  I understood that He was wrestling with his depth of emotion for me.

  He cares.

  “Never,” I agreed fervently. “I’ll stay with you, Master.”

  He needed me. How could I possibly leave Him when He needed me?

  His Journal

  May 22, 1978

  She tried to escape me. She tried to leave me. My anger with her betrayal almost made me lose control. Yes, beating my father to death granted me that heady sense of power for the first time, but my control over her is better, more fulfilling. I’m not crushing the life out of her; I’m crushing her resistance. I’m carefully hammering her mind into the shape I wish, like a blacksmith beats upon heated, pliant metal to shape it into the implement he desires.

  I desire her obedience, her submission, her devotion. I don’t desire to inflict fear so intense that she will be driven to madness. I don’t want her to be broken.

/>   A part of me is proud of her for her rash bid for freedom. She still manages to surprise me. And the light of true submission in her eyes when she touched my face was… pleasant.

  Yes, I was right not to beat her. This complete devotion is so much better. I can hurt her, can harvest pleasure from her, for so much longer if I don’t destroy her.

  Chapter 9

  Kathleen

  Who hurt you, Master?

  I had wondered what made my dark angel fall. Now I wondered who made Him fall.

  He said He needed to control me to feel alive. Who had hurt Him so badly that He couldn’t allow himself to feel anything? How deep must the scars go to cause that kind of damage to his soul?

  These were the only thoughts that filtered through my perpetual night. I had given up on memories of my other life. They were painful. Or at least, they had been. Now, I only felt a strange detachment when one skittered across my mind. That life hadn’t held any true pleasure as this one did. No one had ever shown me the ecstasy that He did. No one had understood my pain like He did.

  When I was with Him, I didn’t have to fight to make something of myself, to deny myself the most basic need for intimacy. All I had to do was submit, and Master gave me everything I needed.

  When He came for me, I smiled into the darkness. He removed my blindfold, and I found Him smiling down at me in response to my own joy.

  There was no more than a touch of cruelty to the twist of his lips now. I needed to know who had instilled that cruelty. Then He could finally purge it from himself. He wouldn’t need to hurt me to feel alive.

  He won’t need me.

  The thought was a knife to my gut.

  No. This was for the best. He would be healed, and He would release me from my bonds. If He freed me, that didn’t mean I had to leave Him. He would still need me to keep his demons at bay. He cared about me.

  And I cared about Him. I wanted to fix Him.

  “Who hurt you, Master?”

  His smile disappeared, his lips thinning. I hadn’t realized how open his eyes had become until they shuttered closed, the gleaming gold muting to dull brass. His fists curled at his sides.

  I’m sorry, Master. I don’t want to upset you, Master. I didn’t dare speak the words aloud. Not because I feared his retribution, but because I didn’t want to cause Him to retreat further into himself.

  He stared down at me, and I held my breath, waiting. He looked as though He wanted to hurt me. Deeply.

  Steeling my resolve, I willed the anxiety rising within me to subside. This question was too important for me to allow fear to ruin it. I wasn’t sure what more Master could take from me, but He couldn’t take anything if He didn’t answer. That would violate the rules of his game.

  The taut lines around his mouth told me that He realized the same thing. His hand twitched toward me. I wasn’t sure if He wanted to strike me or if He wanted to shove me down and fuck me. Gauging by the confusion in his eyes, He wasn’t sure either.

  After a moment, his expression hardened. When He reached for me, it was a controlled, deliberate movement. Saying nothing, He pulled the blindfold back over my eyes.

  I panicked at the loss of the sight of Him.

  “Master?” His name was colored with alarm.

  He moved away from me. The stairs creaked with his retreat.

  “Master, wait! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

  He ignored my cries. I screamed his name over and over, until my throat was raw, but He didn’t return to me.

  My anguished tears were shed for Him, not myself.

  The door opened for the first time in what seemed an eternity. My stomach ached for food more acutely than it had since He first abducted me.

  “Master, I-”

  “Don’t speak to me, slave.” He cut across my croaked apology.

  Slave. He had never called me that before. I was his pet. He took care of me. He cared about me.

  I pressed my lips together. If I was good, He would forgive me. He had to forgive me.

  He cares. He cares.

  He tugged the blindfold from my eyes with none of his usual finesse. When He unlocked my cuffs, there were no tender, lingering touches upon my skin. Instead, He drew back from me immediately.

  He shoved a plate of fruit across the mattress so that it rested by my face. I didn’t understand why He had removed my blindfold to feed me. I didn’t understand why He wasn’t holding me as He usually did.

  Pushing back my confusion, I opened my mouth, waiting for Him.

  “Eat,” He ordered shortly.

  “Master-”

  “What did I tell you about speaking to me, slave?”

  I reached for the sliced apple with shaking hands. It had been so long since I had moved without his direction. I barely remembered how to eat without his help.

  My fingers paused before bringing the fruit to my lips, and I stared at Him imploringly.

  “If my slave can’t follow orders, then she won’t eat at all.” The words were dispassionate, his voice flat.

  I shoved the apple in my mouth so fast I nearly choked on it. He watched me as I ate, but his eyes were dull, his face utterly expressionless. It was as though I wasn’t even a living thing.

  I’m your pet, Master. You care about me. Remember? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

  My tears flowed, but the words didn’t. I would be obedient. I would be good.

  “Good behavior is rewarded.”

  If I was good, He would reward me with his warmth again. He had to. I had known ecstasy as his pet; I would know nothing but madness as his slave.

  My heart felt brittle in my chest, as though one cruel word from Him would shatter it.

  When I finished the apple, He thrust a glass of water at me. I stared at it stupidly. What was I supposed to do?

  “Drink it.” The order was clipped, impatient.

  I grasped the glass before He could remove it. My fingers brushed against his, and I allowed them to linger. I gazed up into his eyes, willing Him to feel the connection between us.

  His nostrils flared, and He jerked the water away. It sloshed over the sides of the glass, spilling onto my arm.

  Without a word, He set the glass down on the floor. A small cry of distress worked its way up my throat when He secured my cuffs to the headboard again. When He pulled back from me, He retrieved the water. Staring me straight in the eye, He raised it to his lips and drained the entire glass in a matter of seconds.

  Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes. He was hurting so badly. I recognized his pain in his need to torture me.

  “I’m sorry, Master,” I whispered.

  He snarled and threw the glass down. It shattered on the concrete, filling the room with the sound of his own brokenness.

  “Don’t speak to me, slave!”

  He pulled the blindfold over my eyes. He left me again, leaving me wanting for water, for his touch, for his approval.

  In the dark, my mind retreated to a place of wordless distress. All I could do was wait for Him to come back to me.

  I lost track of the number of times my new, cold Master came to me. His visits were perfunctory, as though His only concern was to give me the sustenance I needed to keep my heart beating. He never touched me. He watched me as I fed and washed myself.

  I ached for the feel of His hands upon me. Just the sight of Him got me wet. I wasn’t sure if my body hoped that my arousal would stir Him, or if it was now a Pavlovian response to His presence.

  I didn’t dare touch myself in front of Him, but in the dark, the desire overwhelmed me. My hands twitched in my cuffs, seeking freedom to relieve the painful throbbing of my core. My body was desperate for any sort of human contact.

  I was beginning to forget what His touch felt like. The realization elicited enough panic to jolt my brain back to coherence.

  There had to be some way to bring my old Master back. The man who cherished me, who touched me so tenderly, who gave me such merciful pain.

  He’s hu
rting. Someone hurt him.

  A memory stirred, blurry and distant. It was more a concept than a concrete scene from my past.

  Someone hurt me.

  If I shared my pain with Master, maybe He would share His pain with me.

  My breathing turned fast and shallow as I listened to His approach. I didn’t dare speak out of turn, but I had to fix things between us; I had to fix Him.

  Thankfully, He spoke first. As always, He read my body easily.

  “What are you thinking, slave?” My heart leapt at the note of curiosity in His voice.

  “My father hurt me,” I said quickly. The words were rusty issuing from my disused mouth, but they were discernable. “He beat my mother and my sister and me.”

  “Is this your way of telling me I’m just like your father?” He snarled, and His rage pulsed over me.

  He ripped the blindfold from my eyes. I blinked to find His face looming just above me, His nose inches from mine. His red gaze burned into me with the force of His fury.

  “That I’m just like my father?” He demanded.

  “Your father hurt you, too.” It was a statement, not a question.

  His hand wrapped around my throat. His fingers were iron bands, but they barely pressed into my skin. His violence was restrained by a thread.

  “He beat my mother to death.” He spat the words at me. “I was two years old, but I remember. I remember her ruined face, her blood pooling on the floor to trickle under the door to the closet, where I hid. It wet my cheek where I stared through the crack between the door and the floorboards. I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t…”

  He trailed off, tearing His eyes from me, as though looking away from me would allow Him to rip His inner gaze from the horrors of His past.

  “You’re not like him.” I didn’t even realize that the words were a lie. “You don’t hurt me. Not really.”

  You need me. You care.

  Suddenly, He twisted my nipple hard. I cried out at the exquisite pain of the contact.

  He touched me.