Fighting Dreams Ch. 03

"Sir?" I whisper, horrified and confused in one as I scramble back from the furious male who stalks me.

He grabs my collar, forcing me to stand before the mirror on the wall. As one hand pins my arms behind my back, the other pulls off the leather of my collar. And as I look into the glass, I feel my stomach drop into my throat. Oh my god.

Right under the edge of where his collar would sit is a bruise that can only be called a hickey....

A tremble starts and won't stop as I stare at the tiles. He marked me. He marked me in another man's house, under another man's collar.

Regulus set me up for the worst punishment a slave can receive.

I throw myself at Slate's feet, pressing my forehead to the floor as I bow before him. "Please Sir, I never saw him, I swear! Please Sir I didn't...." I beg desperately at his feet.

Slate's hand drops to my hair and pulls me back into a tall knee so that I'm looking into his face. His eyes stare deep into mine; his tone hammers my soul. "Go to the basement steps. You will kneel with your forehead on that door and you will not move a fucking muscle."

I'm dead.

When his grip releases, I scramble down the steps to that wooden door and kneel as he's ordered. He's going to send me to Alexander or King. I can feel it. Fuck fuck FUCK! My forehead, my nose press against that wood as I close my eyes and beg whatever gods there are he believes me. Anticipation leaves my body wanting to fidget; I fist my hands tight to quell that urge as I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I can hear Slate thundering through the house, but he never comes to me. The part of me that's trembling is very grateful for that. He screwed me. He purposefully and utterly screwed any chance I have of making it through this.

My knees ache, and then my back. Even my feet start to go numb from kneeling so long. I can't believe it. It wasn't a dream. But how did he get in here?

Why is he doing this to me?

I tumble thoughts in circles, trying to make heads or tails of the situation. But nothing makes sense. All that I know, right now, is that I have no idea how long I have been here.

Focusing on the sounds of the house, I hear very little noise now. The odd creak as the structure warms in the sun. The thud of the kitchen faucet leaking. But nothing else.

Where is Slate?

Did the car leave and I somehow missed it? Is he here still? I turn my eyes a little to either side, but there's no signs of movement in my peripherals. Sighing, I close my eyes.

What the hell is going on? Regulus knew Slate would see. But what's the point? I'm already in a Rotation. This doesn't make any sense!

My ears hear a heavy thud of boots approach from behind me, and then a hand wrap around my braid. The pull makes me look up into their eyes.

I swallow thickly as I stare into King's merciless grey pits.

"Did you know?" He asks bluntly.

Frozen, I make myself hold his eyes. "No," I whisper.

He pins me there under his gaze. I feel like he strips away all my layers as I sit there, pliant and still under his grip. Finally, he looks to Slate.

"She's innocent," he states after a moment.

I feel like a weight has lifted from my chest. Oh thank go-

"But punish her anyway." He holds up three of the tokens from the game the night before. "Make it something special."

Slate takes the tokens with a dark smile. "Done."

And before I can even process what has happened, I'm pulled down those basement stairs.

Slate's simplicity is the very thing that makes him dangerous.

He doesn't waste effort on the showy or grand. He simply takes one, thin piece of agony and stretches it until you have a new appreciation for why it's so awful. He can likewise take a simple pleasurable sensation and create a volume of it that overwhelms the senses over and over again.

His basement is a serial killer's wet dream, minus all the sharp objects. Concrete floors, wood pillars, and iron supports combined with peg boards, chains, pipes, and pieces of leather are scattered in various arrangements under a single lightbulb. Mark Davis would be proud.

He pulls me to one of the wooden pillars that stands slightly lower than my chest and makes me stand with it between my ankles; two leather cuffs are then locked on them so that I can't take a step in any direction. There's two more manacles on the side; he pushes me into a slight squat and then locks my forearm into their hold. For a finishing touch, he hooks something into my collar that tugs my neck closer to it so that I have to press my breasts against the post.

He takes down the large rubber ball gag from his shelf, strapping it solidly over my tongue so that my sounds are cut off. The clock he sets to my left, where the hands show 8:00. I can hear its buzzing tick in the silence.

Then he leaves, not a word spoken.

For a time, I'm able to just focus on keeping my balance. I lean into my headspace, playing off my building world. But then there's this... ache... that starts in my rear.

A need to relieve the pressure in my thighs. But as my knees straighten even a little, I feel the manacles cut into my lower forearms and the collar against my neck. If I try to rock down, then the manacles to my ankles create pressure against my calves and shins as my weight shifts. No up or down... great.

I test various shifts of my body; there is nothing comfortable. The best I can do is to shift the discomfort from place to place as it grows unbearable. But soon? Everything is aching from my jaw to my ankles.

How long's it been? I look over at the clock.

8:00.

The hands haven't moved an inch.

I have no way to know how much time has passed. No way to know how long I've been here, or how long I will have to stay. And I have to admire his "special" feature to this painful punishment.

Trust Slate to throw in a goddamn psychological mindfuck.

Time marches on. My body is covered in a sheen of sweat. My limbs tremble; I can't stop the shaking anymore. And the only sound in that empty basement is the panted whimpers I make.

The drool has seeped down the gag and coats my neck and chest. My jaw aches from it being in place so long. I can feel the throbbing lines against the back of my calves; the raw skin of my wrists from tugging against the bonds which hold me in positional hell. Please... let it be over soon.

My body tells me it's been hours when he finally comes back down those stairs. He uses my hair to peel my head back from the pillar. "Ready to come out?"

I moan in response around the gag. Please.

"I guess I'll leave you here for awhile longer then."

And back up the stairs he goes, ignoring my pitiful cries of protest. Fucker! No!

It feels longer this time.

But then, I'm already in pain so I have no reference to know. The discomfort has leveled out now. It's just a steady nagging in my joints that is getting drowned by the exhaustion which has set in. What can I do about it anyway?

When he comes back down the stairs and asks awhile later, I quickly nod and plead with him. Anything. I'll do anything. Just please let me out!

He smiles, seemingly pleased by my answer and strokes a thumb along my cheek. But his words sink my hopes. "Not yet."

He leaves me alone once again.

Not again.

My brain goes into some strange twilight state. I don't bother to think. I don't do anything other than survive as best I can.

No matter what I say or do, I am here until he decides otherwise.

When he comes down at last, I don't even acknowledge him. I feel defeated by the pain that I can't endure, but can't escape. He asks the question and I look up at him. I wait listlessly to see what he decides without answering.

To my shock, he releases the hook on my collar. Then the cuffs around my wrists. Then the bindings on my ankles so that my body falls back to the ground.

"You seem to finally have gotten the point, girl. What you want doesn't matter, little slave."

"Stand." He commands.

I try. It's worse agony than being bound down to the pillar. But I do not want to be left there again. So I fight that pain, I fight my body, and I push myself up.

Motherfucking gods...they're stuck. But I have to get up. Something pops and then I'm holding on to the pillar sobbing between breaths, but on my feet.

He watches dispassionately. "Up the stairs. Then back to your knees."

He doesn't let me linger, even in my misery. Back up the stairs we go, and then it's a slow crawl through the house to my bedroom. When we reach the familiar space, he unclips his leash. "You have a half-hour to yourself. Then I expect you downstairs, working on your list. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir." I still hate you for this. When my door clicks shut, I collapse into my bed, wrap myself into my blanket... and pass out.

If he hadn't set the alarm? I'd have never made it downstairs on time.

A benevolent asshole is still an asshole, I remind myself, wincing as sinking to my knees makes one pop. My thighs are burning from exhaustion still; my back aches from the strain lingering from my punishment. The throbbing makes every slow stride a fresh dose of agony.

I crawl down to find my list on the counter; he's cut down my cleaning duties and I'm grateful for it. He's also left me food as well; a piece of toast and a glass of juice. I quickly eat both and wash the dishes. Alright. Maybe he's not a full asshole.

Attending the individual rooms and the laundry eats what remains of the afternoon's time. I manage to just barely get everything put away before the alarm sounds; when I check the schedule again, I'm confused. Where dinner should be, he's now blacked out.

In fact, now that I look at it I don't see anything else for the evening.

"Hello, sweetheart."

I turn sharply, looking up at Dream. He smiles, holding up my stack of tokens. "You're mine for the next seven hours, sugar," he murmurs.

"I just hope your pride didn't write a check your ass can't cash."

((To Be Continued))